Spirit of Fear: The Misguided Fox
by TermiteStudios
Summary: Searching for a place to belong, a transfer student arrives to study in Europe's most famous magical schools. Is there really a place for an eccentric warlock with an ancient wand infused in his right arm and a pet dragon? Original Character, Books 2 to 7.
1. Chapter 1, History of Disorderly Conduct

This story revolves around an original character, so the Character 1 and Character 2 properties will not be entirely accurate for the story's entirety. Resultingly, the aforementioned properties will be adjusted to reflect the canon character most involved in the single most recent chapter for Character 1, and the latest five (5) chapters for Character 2. As the story progresses, these properties will be changed accordingly. I hope this clears up any confusion.

"Spirit of Fear" is rated Teen for language, alchohol reference, and all-around just-in-case.

--TermiteStudios

* * *

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (excluding the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter 1

A History of Disorderly Conduct.

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me!"

"We take matters such as this very seriously."

"You're getting rid of me as punishment to a rule violation when you have no physical evidence that I committed the offending action? That's against the University's code!"

"You had the means, the motive, and the opportunity. In your words, that is enough to convict of..."

"I said that's a starting point! I never said you should kick people out on that basis alone!"

"The board's decision is final. You will surrender your-"

"Ah, you're a joke! I'm out of here!"

The sound of a long, thin piece of wood clattering to a cold stone floor rang through the hall, followed by a heavy door being closed so hard it stressed the integrity of the centuries-old hinges that held it to the wall.

It was a routine that had been played out three times before, all with the hopes that it would be different next year. Given the current streak, it was starting to look like things would never change. Chey would just have to keep looking.

Chey was no stranger to rejection. As a matter of fact, this was the fourth time he'd been expelled. Remarkable, especially considering this was his fourth year of education. Far more remarkable was that he had only surrendered his wand once.

As Chey left the grounds, twirling the wand he had just given the impression of surrendering, he looked back on the year at the Venice University of Magic, a school located on an island just off the coast of Italy. It wasn't bad. The classes were good and challenging, the Mediterranean weather was excellent, and the expressions on everyone's faces when they learned he spoke fluent Italian were priceless. It was like a MasterCard commercial.

As he passed the other students on his way out, they inquired as to his fate. He reassured them he went down fighting, that he never confessed, that their involvement would never be investigated, and that he would be sure to keep in touch. He also warned them never to speak of it again, lest they share his fate.

Chey was always good at taking the fall without anyone realizing it. It started at his second school. That one went so well that not even he realized he was taking the full brunt of the punishment. As a matter of fact, the only ones who knew were the real perpetrators. They had learned of his reputation from his first school, and figured they could accomplish the most devilish form of mischief, and pass the buck on to the new kid. It worked.

Chey reached the edge of the grounds and stopped. He had to, because this was an island and any continuation without proper equipment would get his feet wet, and these were new shoes. Luckily, his progress was not hindered long, for the ferry to the main shore soon arrived, with his greatest critic onboard.

"Chey William McGonnagal, you owe me an explanation!"

"Nice to see you too, Aunt Em," he replied while proceeding to load his belongings onto the ferry.

"Keep in mind the only reason you aren't being brought back to shore while tied by your ankle to the stern of the boat is that you managed to keep yourself away from trouble until after the final exams. You are by no means off the thin ice, young man!" she replied, as though she had been practicing in her head ever since she'd heard the news of his plight.

"Well, I was going to pull this off on Day 1, but the thought of upsetting you was just too terrible for me to risk it."

"And what about three days ago when you did pull it off?"

"Not so much anymore," he said with the casualness that only he could accomplish before the impending fury that was Minerva. Being her nephew helped.

"If your father could see you now..." she said with the disappointing tone that never worked on Chey.

"From what I hear about him, he'd get a kick out of it. And Mom would be very approving of the grades I achieved." All this was probably true. His father was a bit of a trouble maker; drove the family crazy. Always knew how to hold back, but still liked to push the envelope. At the same time, his mother was quite the accomplished scholar, and nothing gave her more joy as a child than proving her teachers were wrong. Very few have ever guessed correctly how the two of them got together.

But their union was what brought out such a unique case such as Chey. He seemed to have acquired their personality traits in just such a way that he was brilliant, mischievous, loved to argue, and still made the family regret ever approving of him. His parents would be so proud, and that's why Minerva's disapproving tone never worked on him, because he knew that as long as he followed his instincts and took his beliefs seriously, there was no way he could ever disappoint.

Unfortunately for him, Minerva was under the idea that his parent's approval never gave him license to disappoint her.

Soon, all his belongings were on the ferry, they were on their way to the mainland, and Chey's pet raven, Raithe, was squawking incessantly at sea birds.

"Have you considered what you'll be doing next year?" Minerva asked, hoping to catch Chey off guard. It had been a routine of their's, one of them saying something to catch the other in a moment of disorganization of thoughts. Yet again, however, this tactic failed to phase him, for he replied without missing a beat.

"Already taken care of, Em. Sent in the application to Durmstrang four days ago."

"And what about the letter of recommendation from an instructor of your most recent place of schooling that they require? Surely no one at Venice University will write one for you now."

"Had the instructor with the longest and most impressive record at Venice University jot one down the day I mailed in the application. Had Raithe send it, and it was on Karkaroff's desk in a day and a half. Raithe returned just yesterday." Again, Chey was ready to respond. Now that this was a focused conversation, there was no chance of Minerva forcing Chey to trip over his thoughts.

"Well, surely they're going to retract their statements now."

"No dice. Deadline passed yesterday. No changes to the application can be made past the deadline. My expulsion will not be factored into their decision, since the judgement was passed after the date of the deadline."

"What about your first three expulsions? Certainly they'll fill in the void." Minerva was reaching now. She already knew why his dismissal from the first three schools would not be considered.

"'Academic records in places of instruction located within the United States cease to be affected following the final exams.' Basically, anything I do after the final doesn't go on record. Also, I technically wasn't expelled, just barred from returning. There's a slight difference. All they said was 'We don't want you here anymore.'"

"Don't expect this run of good luck to last you your whole life, young man."

"Well, considering all the bad luck I had earlier in my life, I classify this as 'reciprocal luck.' In essence, my current run of good luck is balancing out my previous run of bad luck."

Upon reaching the shore, Minerva struck up an old argument that they have every time they see each other after extended periods.

"If you would just come to my school, I could give you a better chance of having an attendance record longer than one year."

"I'm not going to put you in a position where you would have a conflict of interests Minerva! Besides, England is hardly a place where my academic skills can be challenged."

"We can give you more difficult assignments."

"Which I would finish in the blink of an eye. Besides, there's no beaches to relax on, no mountains to snowboard down, and no flat desert that I can achieve sonic speeds on a broomstick over. No sell, Aunt Em. I like my relaxation time to be well spent."

Chey loved to argue. He got that from his mother, along with her brilliance. He couldn't help it. No matter where he went, he was top of the class. He also got his eyes and hair from her. His smooth, silver hair and eyes were strikingly like her's. Most of the rest of his appearance came from his father. He was tall, lank, with a medium build, and a rather lean, angular face, but a smooth jawline.

"Well you're not going to waste your summer vacation, Chey. I have a full run of things to keep you occupied-"

"No way, Minerva!"

"Why not?"

"Because I've already scheduled my own activities. I'll be assisting at the dragon reservation in Romania. I'm sure they'll have plenty for me to do."

"You can't be serious. Handling dragons at your age?"

"Guy over there named Charlie said I'm fully qualified. Class Echo Dragon Handler license clears me for all duties. Besides, this is a good way for me to find a place for Vipey to stay while I study in Europe. It's too much hassle to cross the Atlantic just to check up on him."

"Why you ever adopted that vipertooth, I'll never know."

It was true. Chey had applied for the highest possible license that someone can achieve to handle dragons in the United States. Shortly after he passed the test, he adopted a young vipertooth dragon, which he appropriately named Vipey. Chey's Class Echo license permitted him to care for multiple dragons on his own in any location. That made it possible for him to take Vipey with him to the different schools he attended in the United States. When he enrolled in Italy, he soon learned that his license was not valid in most nations outside North America, so he had to put Vipey up in a reservation in the Nevada desert, an arrangement that Vipey was not pleased with. From Italy to Nevada, it was quite a ways to check up on one very upset 25-foot long dragon with one hell of a bite force. Needless to say, a new solution was required, and Chey was poised to investigate.

"He was adorable in that cast-iron cage. And the Nevada weather makes him cranky. Now, if you don't mind, I need to send an order to have my motorcycle shipped to Romania, and have the local bank create an account linked to my bank back home."

* * *

"You must be Charlie."

"And you must be Chey." Charlie's hair was bright red enough to signal a space station, and freckles peppered his face almost to the point where they all could have become one single contiguous freckle. "The American Department of Sorcery recommended you very well."

"Nothing an impressive license qualification test couldn't handle." Chey decided that there would be plenty of time for pleasantries later, so he got right down to business. "So, did you get my request for a medium-sized isolation pen with flight room?"

"Yeah, I arranged it myself...but you didn't explain why you needed it."

"I got a vipertooth who's anxious to get out of the desert."

"Your's?" Chey's expression told Charlie all he needed to know. "Okay then, let's get you set up."

They proceeded to fit Chey with the proper equipment, and established an office for him. Soon after that, Chey sent instructions to have Vipey moved to Romania. When Chey had been established, the time for pleasantries had arrived.

"What was your last name again, Charlie?"

"Weasly. And that reminds me, your name's McGonnagal, right?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Any relation to Professor McGonnagal, who teaches at Hogwarts in England?"

"Yep. She's my aunt. You know her?"

"She was my Transfiguration teacher."

"Yeah she taught me plenty of stuff, too."

"Oh." There was a pause, then Charlie said "I pity you."

"Yeah, having her as a teacher can be Hell."

"So you lived in America, but she teaches in England?"

"She moved to England when she was accepted into Hogwarts. My dad chose to stay local. Guess he figured the girls were better in the States. That's how he met my mom, so I guess he was right."

"What do your parents do?" Charlie asked in earnest.

"Well, right now they're six feet under." That destroyed the mood immediately. Charlie picked up the expression of someone who'd just had half his internal organs removed. Chey decided that was not a healthy face for someone to have for an extended period, so he moved on. "Before they took that position, Dad was in charge of a quarter of the United States economy."

It was an unusual response for such a simple question, so it was understandable that Charlie's expression changed to one of perplexity.

"The McGonnagals are a very old, powerful family back in the States, both in wealth and in magic. They're masters at investing, managing, transfiguration, many are Animagi, and a few of us are illusionists."

"Illusionists?"

"A lost art. So, how about your folks?"

"Well, my older brother is treasure hunting for Gringotts, my four younger brothers and sister are in school, my father is in the Ministry of Magic and tinkering with Muggle things, and taming the whole lot, there's my mother."

Chey counted on his fingers, then said "Seven kids? That's a tough woman!"

"You'd definitely know it if you met her."

"What's your dad do exactly?"

"Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department. If someone bewitches a wastebasket to throw up whatever's been put in it, he has to repair the damage and cite the offender."

"And the tinkering?"

"He made a flying car."

"Awesome."

"And he collects batteries."

"Interesting. Well, that should make it easy to buy him stuff, right?"


	2. Chapter 2, Bite Force

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (excluding the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter 2

Bite Force

* * *

"Chey! We got incoming!"

"On my way, Chuck." Chey had gotten into the habit of shortening Charlie's name. His rationale was that calling him "Charlie" was like speaking to either a little kid or a really old man, and seeing as Charlie was neither, it was more fitting to call him Chuck. Fortunately for Chey, Chuck had gotten into the habit of being called by that name.

"What we got?" Chey asked as the two of them rushed from the offices to the reception area.

"Peruvian! Came in without handlers!"

"That's a problem." Dragons never came in without handlers. But why would a rogue dragon come here voluntarily? Especially a Peruvian Vipertooth? Unless... "Vipey?!"

Vipey was fending off a dozen handlers trying to get a hold of him. Chey stopped in his tracks, watched the scene for a little bit, and casually walked towards the temperamental lizard.

"VIPE!!" Chey yelled. The commotion ceased, and the dragon looked his way. Chey picked up a chain from the ground, and tossed it in so it wrapped around the dragon's neck. He then pulled the chain down until the dragon's eyes were level with his. "What part of 'behave yourself' did you not understand?!"

"You know this one, new guy?" one of the wranglers asked.

"'Course I know him. He's mine! Looks like he shook off the handlers. I told them to be patient with him. He was probably a little too anxious to see me and they couldn't figure that out. Guess they didn't read my instructions closely enough."

"I'm having a hard time believing a 15 year old can have custody of one of the most dangerous dragons to humans," the handler replied.

"Class Echo handling license, bub. Do I have to prove it, or can I take care of this guy?"

"What do you plan to do with him?" Chuck asked when the scene had dispersed, and Vipey had calmed down to an acceptable level.

"Remember that isolated pen I asked for?"

"You're putting him in there?"

"He's also going to help us tame the more rambunctious residents here. He's great at conflict resolution."

* * *

"Remember how I said Vipe was good at dealing with difficult personalities, Chuck?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he's gonna help us deal with Brian today."

Brian was an oversized Hebridean Black dragon, a particularly nasty breed with a taste for humans. None of the reserve's handlers braved dealing with him without the benefit of high yield stunners and a dozen assistants. It goes without saying that Brian lived in isolation from the other dragons. It was very risky to deal with Brian.

But Chey had an idea.

Vipertooths are the smallest breed of dragon. However, their size allows them to achieve speeds and feats of agility that other breeds can't begin to reach. Vipey was no ordinary dragon; he was very, very smart. He could understand Chey's commands and act accordingly. His capacity for strategy was also significantly high for a Peruvian Vipertooth, which were already an intelligent breed. Vipey had even fended off an Ironbelly that was nearly three times his size and four times his weight. Vipey's natural speed and agility kept him alive.

"Okay, Chuck," Chey started once they'd retrieved Vipey from his pen and made their way over to Brian's cell. It was some weeks after Vipey's arrival, and he had already settled in. "Vipe's gonna run decoy, keep Brian busy, and us two will stun him and stick him with his scale rot medicine. Sound good?"

"Wait, did you just say 'the two of us?'"

"Yeah," Chey said as though there were nothing unusual about that. "That a problem?"

"You're mad, Chey! No one goes in there without at least ten backups!"

"So you're not coming?"

"No! And neither are you without more handlers!" Chuck was decided and there was no changing his mind about it.

"I got Vipe. I'm good."

Vipey made a soft snapping noise in agreement. Chey was holding Vipey by a collar. Vipey was on all fours, and in this position, his head was level with Chey's. It made for a somewhat comical sight; a copper colored, short-horned scaley head next to Chey's face with his silver hair and eyes, both of them with very passive expressions.

"No you're not!" Chuck was adamant, and there was no way for Chey to make it clear to him that Vipey was all the backup he needed. "Brian came into the reservation a feral. We lost three handlers trying to reign him in when he first came! He's killed four since he's been here! Signing that will when you sign up to work here doesn't make you invincible, mate!"

"I know what signing the will means. It means that this is a dangerous job and my possessions and estate will be taken care of in the event of my demise. I'm not an idiot, Chuck."

"Then you're not going in there." At that very moment, there was a terrible roar of rage coming from inside Brian's cell. All three faces looked in the direction of the sound, then Chuck turned back to face the other two and said "You see?!"

Chey continued to study the cell door for a moment, then turned to Vipey and said "Can you take him?"

Vipey made the same soft snap with his voice, confirming that he was capable of doing his job.

"Okay, let's go. Open the door Chuck."

Chuck did just the opposite. In a last ditch effort to talk Chey out of signing his own death warrant, Chuck had pulled out his wand and magically locked the door. He then conjured several heavy wooden planks that plastered themselves over the entire doorway. Chey and Vipey stared at the results of Chuck's desperation as Chuck walked away to get more help.

"Looks like it's you and me, Vipe." Chey effortlessly removed the barricade with his own spell, tossed away Chuck's locking charm as though it were a crumpled piece of paper, opened the door, and led Vipey in. "You know the drill. Go."

Vipey let out the loudest roar he could achieve, while Chey ran off along the edge of the circular cell, using the boulders for cover. Vipey's distraction worked, for Brian was now totally focused on him. The two of them growled at each other, both taking the aggressor's position. Every now and then one would roar and shoot a flame into the air. The two of them had different ways of demonstrating strength. Brian had his size, and his black skin gave him a menacing look, while Vipey would occasionally leap forward, then retreat at a speed only a Vipertooth could achieve. Only one of the dragon's tactics worked: Brian had obviously never dealt with other dragons before, so Vipey's strategy succeeded in startling him.

Brian had enough. He attempted to strike Vipey, but the speed difference was a huge factor, for Brian missed by a mile. Vipey had one eye on Brian, one eye on Chey. A Hebridean Black's theoretical blind spot was directly behind it; theoretical because no one had confirmed it. All anyone knew was that a Hebridean could not turn it's head far enough to reach the base of it's tail. Chey was about to test it.

Vipey had been slowly circling Brian with the intent of keeping his attention away from Chey as he moved to get behind Brian. There was just one problem.

The biggest signal of a dragon's mood is it's tail. Brian's tail said "I'm agitated" in the language of occasional swings at the air. This activity was proposed to be a defense mechanism to counteract the Hebridean's blind spot.

Brian's tail activity was erratic and so random that it was hard for Chey to get a good feel for when to strike. Chey had seen this before: in cartoons. It was very much like a garden hose turned up to the point that it no longer lies flat on the ground. Unfortunately, the classic cartoon character's strategy of holding onto the hose for dear life brought no inspiration to Chey, and shutting off the valve was not an option in this scenario. But part of the cartoon's tactic did make sense: stop it from moving.

It happened nearly all at once. Brian's tail was slammed to the rock and held down by an invisible force that manipulated the air in a way that there was a shimmer effect above the dragon's tail. Brian, startled by the sudden restraint, let out a surprised roar, and turned his head to see what in fact had grabbed onto his tail. Vipey seized the chance, and Brian as well, as he leapt into the air and came down hard on Brian's head, hold him to the ground.

This gave Chey ample time to administer treatment for Brian's scale rot on his back, which contained a powerful sedative so he wouldn't move and irritate the affected area. After Chey was satisfied that Brian was sedate enough, indicated by his weakened struggles, Chey signaled to Vipey that it was safe to release Brian, and they made their way to the door. As Chey exited, Vipey close behind, Brian's grumbles could be heard quite clearly.

Waiting just outside was a team of twenty handlers, Chuck included. Until Chey's emergence, they had been looking at the wooden planks that were now stacked neatly by the door.

"All done with him for today guys. All taken care of."

The team stood there, as though trying to figure out what had just happened.

* * *

Before long, it was time for Chey to once again pretend he cared about his education. Chuck had agreed to take care of Vipey while Chey attended Durmstrang, and Vipey agreed to let Chey go as long as he came to visit during breaks. Chuck had raised the concern that Chey didn't know Russian, but Chey assured him it was nothing a quick spell couldn't fix. Chuck then warned him never to mention to his aunt that learning can be accomplished by magic.

"See you around, Chuck. And Vipey, behave yourself! I mean it!" Chey warned as he left.

The Durmstrang property was huge. They even had some small mountains with decent enough gradients for some exhilarating snowboard runs, and a large lake with a ghastly looking ship, which Chey took a liking to. The castle was ancient, possibly stretching well beyond Medieval times. When he first glanced it, he was awed by the kind of upkeep it must have required. Then he slapped himself back into reality as he remembered that this was a magical world, and things such as age are of little consequence.

Chey's first question probably wasn't the best one to ask.

"When do those mountains get enough snow to ride down without hitting a rock?"

What made matters all that more awkward was his choice of venue. He shouted it from the front door of the entrance hall when it was full of people. It was nonetheless an effective way of getting the attention of a faculty member.

"Can I help you, young man?" asked a middle-aged man with a dark beard reaching halfway down his chest.

"Chey McGonnagal. Here to pick up my schedule."

"You're the American student who filed for transfer here, aren't you?"

"Yeah. So, about those mountains?"

"Late November. Until then, you can attend your classes. I am Igor Karkaroff, Headmaster of Durmstrang."

"Cool. You got a map to this place?"

It seems Chey was a little hard to keep up with for the old guy, so he was handed off to one of the students, a stocky boy Chey's age named Viktor. Viktor was patient enough with Chey's haphazard conversation style to not clobber Chey in the face. Chey quickly learned that Viktor was the top dog on campus.

"So, does everyone say hi to you all the time, or is it just a start of the year thing?"

"My flying skills are popular, not me." Viktor responded solemnly, as though he wasn't very proud of his accomplishment.

"What kind of flying?"

"Broomstick, what else?

"Sorry, I'm just familiar with multiple forms of flight."

"Such as?"

"Well, aside from the method previously stated, there's flight by dragon, winged horse, free fall, levitation, and then all the non-magical forms."

"And how many have you experienced?" Viktor asked as they toured outside on the grounds.

"All except the winged horse. Can't seem to get my hands on one. You?"

"I prefer the broom. More control. Are you any good?" It was obvious where he was going with this.

"Decent enough. Speed's more my thing. I've clocked 120 unassisted on last year's Nimbus. Picked up an '01 a few weeks ago. Traded up. What do you fly?"

"Same thing."

Chey smelled a challenge coming on, so he figured now was as good a time as any to make it, because at this point it didn't matter who proposed it.

"Given that our vehicles are identical, why not a test of skill?" Chey suggested. They were now outside, and the weather was calm, so neither could resist the opportunity.

"We race up the mountain, circle the summit, cross over the lake, follow the path around the castle, then fly underneath the arches back to this spot," Viktor proposed as he used a summoning charm on his broom, which was presently residing with the rest of his belongings in the dorms. The broom was in his hand when he finished the sentence.

Chey did likewise as he said "Deal." A crowd seemed to sense the impending competition, and had gathered at the agreed upon start and finish line. The two of them lined up, and a spectator agreed to signal the start.

Viktor kicked off hard from a standoff, while Chey ran a few steps, tossed his broom forward, jumped, and mounted it in midair. They both made a beeline for the mountain's summit, on which was a flag. Chey figured that it had been used as a race marker before, and it made for a nice reference point. They both rounded it, Viktor following Chey. They then flew low to the dirt on the way down the slope, dodging the trees that had, over the years, conquered the hillside and had spread out to indicate the dominion of plantlife over mountain. Chey's unfamiliarity with the tree's location cost him time, for Viktor navigated them full tilt as though guided by the invisible rails of instinct. Over the water was where Chey made up for lost momentum. Flat regions were his specialty: a result of his high speed runs over the Nevada deserts. Close to the far shore, the ship was docked, and the two of them cleared it's deck by inches. Beyond the ship was the path. As they rocketed over it, shoulder to shoulder, a cloud of dust followed them, picked up from the loose dirt that made up their point of reference on the ground. They followed the path, neck and neck, in a long arc that circled to the back of the castle. At the end, the arches began. Flying only high enough that they wouldn't hit anyone on the ground, they streaked toward the crowd of people that marked the finish line. They streaked ever closer, until finally, with thirty feet remaining, Chey pulled back.


	3. Chapter 3, How Cold

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (excluding the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter 3

How Cold

* * *

Viktor shot over the crowd, with Chey following just inches behind him. In disbelief, Viktor took his time returning, while Chey quickly circled back to the throng of people and declared Viktor had won. When Viktor finally landed, the students praised their champion, as though his place in the ranks had been in any real jeopardy.

"What was that?!" Viktor had rounded on Chey after the crowd had dispersed.

"What was what?"

"You pulled back!"

"You're complaining? Isn't that what the loser is supposed to do?" Chey asked in a knowing tone.

"I might as well have lost thanks to what you did! Why did you do that?!"

"I don't want to be the new guy everyone hates because he beat the big boss on campus at his own game. It's not like me to tarnish the reputation of someone with real talent. But don't worry, somewhere down the line, I'll play more fair."

Viktor stood in place with a stunned expression as Chey walked away. However, Chey soon returned.

"Does anyone have a map to this place?!"

* * *

"So what do you guys do for fun around here?" Chey asked Viktor and his two friends during lunch one day.

"Besides flying?" Viktor asked in response.

"Yeah. I mean flying is great and all, but it gets kind of repetitive. It's too early to ride the slopes, and tormenting the little kids is unethical. So whadda ya got?"

"Well, we do have something," said Sergey, one of Viktor's friends from past years. "But it's not quite cold enough."

"Heck, if it's cold you want I can probably help you out there! What is it?"

* * *

"Awesome! What do we do and how cold does it have to be?"

They were on the deck of the ship, standing near the railing, looking down at the water. Chey had a pretty good idea what they were going to say, but there was an aesthetic in hearing the words out loud.

"We throw each other into near freezing water." Nikolay had indulged Chey's desire to hear those words.

"Well, if it's cold water you want, it's cold water you'll get!" Chey pulled his wand from his left sleeve and cast a wide freezing charm on the water. He used a strap on his arm that he made himself. It allowed for a quicker draw, and the wand was less likely to break when it was strapped to his arm. The only downside was that Chey's wand was longer than his forearm, but a simple shortening charm on the strap solved that problem. "Okay! That should do it guys. Guys?"

Viktor, Sergey, and Nikolay were all standing behind him with a look of mischief among them.

"Aw, damn..." Chey said as he was hurled over the railing of the ship and plummeted towards the water's surface. He was falling backwards, so he saw them lean over the side to watch him fall into the water. Chey seized his chance for payback.

He cast a spell of his own he had developed. The spell was like an invisible elastic rope that latched onto Nikolay and pulled him and Chey towards each other. As a result, Nikolay began his own descent towards the water, and Chey's fall was slowed significantly. After Nikolay fell past Chey, he cast the same spell on Sergey, a similar result followed, and Chey was now closer to the deck he had unwillingly departed seconds before. The only target for Chey's spell left was Viktor, and over the rail he went, into the lake.

Now that Chey had enacted his revenge, it was time to panic, because there was no longer anything on the deck for the spell to latch onto, so Chey resorted to flailing all the way down.

* * *

"Okay, maybe I made it too cold." Chey remarked after they had all pulled themselves out. They were all huddling around a blue flame they had collectively conjured. "But I'm not totally to blame. You're the ones who told me 'near freezing.'"

"We didn't think you would pull us in!" Viktor exclaimed.

"Well, what goes around-" Chey didn't have a chance to finish the sentence, for his companions' expressions stopped his words in his throat.

"How did you pull us in?" Sergey asked a moment later.

"Little trick of my own. It's part of a series of spells that are more fitting to save your life than to attain revenge."

"You invented your own spells?" Viktor inquired, no longer ready to bite Chey's head off. All three of were now intrigued. "How?"

"It's easy as long as you understand magic." This perplexed all three of them. How could simply "understanding magic" unlock such a powerful tool?

"We all know how to use magic!" Viktor voiced their collective thoughts. "Why can't we create our own spells?"

"I said 'understand.'" Like that made any more sense to them. "You can't just pick up a book and start inventing at your heart's content! You have to actually use your head. Having an expert teach you also helps."

"So teach us. You say you 'understand' magic, so you can teach us to know it as you do." Nikolay had stopped shivering just long enough to get out an intelligent sentence.

"Whoa, guys. It's more complicated than just a little extra tutoring. This is hard stuff!"

"You figured it out." Sergey pointed out. "If you could do it, so can we."

Chey looked at them with an expression of slight exasperation.

"If you guys go through with this," he said with the first bit of seriousness he'd exhibited since arriving, "your mind may be so disrupted by the lessons that focusing on anything at all will be next to impossible for weeks."

"Are you serious?" Nikolay said, the shiver returning to his voice.

"Well, I haven't seen it happen firsthand, but I heard about it." Chey's audience acquired a look of disappointment. They would have loved an excuse to completely ignore their schoolwork. "It does take a lot of concentration, among a few other things."

"Such as?" Nikolay's intrigue had returned.

"Hard work, determination, good wizard to wand compatibility, proficiency in nonverbal spellcasting, and an inexplicable comprehension of fluid dynamics." There was a pause while he admired the state of confusion he had created. "Seriously."

* * *

Chey had never faced such a difficult task, and he had never failed so miserably. It was clear that Chey did not make a very good teacher.

"It makes no sense, Chey!" they would exclaim periodically. The best Chey could do was try to explain what he knew, and given his rather off-beat thought process, the problems compounded. Chey's definition of magic didn't help much either.

"Magic is fickle as a pigeon you're trying to train to sit on your shoulder. At the same time, it's as consistent as the sun rising in the morning." It made perfect sense to Chey, so why not anyone else?

Soon, however, they gave up on inventing their own spells, and settled for learning the ones Chey had developed. While many of them were similar to the ones in their text books, the advantage was that Chey's spells were quick and nearly instantaneous. Add that to their nonverbal nature, and they were perfect for dueling, granting the caster an element of surprise.

Chey was just reviewing a flash-freezing spell with them during dinner, when Sergey got distracted and froze Chey's hand instead of the glass of water in front of him. Needless to say, it sparked quite a cry of agony from their end of the table.

"What'd you do that for, man!" Chey exclaimed as he warmed his hand back to room temperature. "You forget which way is forward or what?"

"Sergey got a look at Mariya and lost his head," Nikolay explained. However, this explanation required yet another.

"Who's Mariya?"

"Over in the corner." Viktor ansered. "She just walked in. Sat down in the corner over there."

"Yeah, Sergey's had an eye on her for months," Nikolay elaborated. "She said hello to him once and for some reason he thinks that means there's something between them."

Chey let out a long sigh of realization. "Sergey's got the hots for Mariya, eh?"

"In a matter of speaking," Sergey said while staring blankly at the table.

"So what's wrong? Just muster up any dignity you may have left following your dismal performance in potions class and ask the girl out!"

"It's not that simple," he said as though he'd played this conversation out in his head several times late at night.

"Why not? Look at her. She's beautiful, right? Now look at the space between her and you. What do you see?"

"The floor," Sergey responded with an air of reluctance to answer anyone's questions at the moment.

"Exactly!" Chey was on a roll. "There's no ferocious tiger or alligator infested moat or pool of molten lava anywhere! Not even a baby Horntail! You're unstoppable, man! Go for it!"

Viktor and Nikolay simultaneously agreed with Chey, leaving Sergey no recourse but to go along with their suggestion. With a reluctant groan, Sergey made his way to Mariya's table. All was looking good. On the way over, his posture straightened up, his stride became more regular, and his face exhumed confidence.

"You see, gentlemen?" Chey addressed the other two. "Given the right motivation, any man can overcome even the greatest obstacles." Those words should never have been said. It was at that moment that Sergey made a slight adjustment to his course. This adjustment led him right out the door. "I've got a lot of work to do. Let's go get him before he tries to drown his self-pity in the lake."

* * *

The following weeks consisted of learning Chey's spells, keeping up with their regular assignments, and building Sergey's confidence. Unfortunately, they were a little too late, because Mariya was seen in the arms of the (allegedly) popular Andrey. Needless to say, Sergey had mixed feelings: on the one hand, he'd missed his chance, on the other he didn't have the guys breathing down his neck. Despite the upside, he was still moody.

Another entry in their already busy schedule of activities was helping Viktor hone his flying skills. The four of them would conduct practice sessions outside the team practices. Viktor's specialty was seeker, while Nikolay and Sergey were proficient in picking up a bat and swatting bludgers. Chey was the only one who could match Viktor's skills, so he played the opposing seeker.

"Come on, Viktor! You'll never make it to a pro league before seventh year if you don't take advantage of every ounce of speed you can get!"

"You're faster than me, Chey!"

"There's a bit of speed in that too! Don't you know anything about drafting?!"

Viktor, Sergey, and Nikolay had learned a lot since Chey had arrived. He'd brought with him the science that Americans apply to just about everything. Knowledge of aerodynamics, trajectories, and even psychology of the other team to predict which way they'll turn all proved useful to them, the latter one being less so than the former two.

"I'm beginning to wonder how you made it so far before I showed up," Chey said during a rather slow-paced practice session. "Listen, I saw your performance in the last game and something made me think. This game is too honest."

"What do you mean?" Viktor asked, his confusion justified.

"The rules say nothing about using deception. I've been cooking up a little tactic that might help take advantage of that omission. But you have to pull it off just right: you go wrong one way and it doesn't work. On the flip side, going wrong the other way will put you in a heap of hurt. However, if you do this right, you may just win the game."

"That's worth the gamble. Go ahead."

"Okay, react to my movements as though I were the other team's seeker." Chey took a sharp, steep dive, and Viktor instinctively followed; anytime the other team's seeker made a move, you followed it. Chey kept moving downward, seemingly focused on something directly ahead of him, while Viktor frantically searched the air in front of Chey. Closer and closer they sped to the ground, never slowing or deviating from their track. Then, with feet to go, and before Viktor could realize it, Chey changed course.

Viktor's momentum continued to propel him to the ground, but by shear luck he was able to slow to the point that his collision with the dirt wasn't too hard, and the impression left in the earth was kept to a minimum, but the lesson was well learned: use of deception to inflict pain on the other team's most integral player was an effective strategy.

"I've been doing some research on that strategy you 'invented,' Chey," Nikolay said the following day as he entered the student lounge with more ice for Viktor's shoulder. "I'd thought I'd seen it before. Turns out it's called the Wronski Feint."

"Huh. Would've figured it'd only take someone as diabolical as me to think that up," Chey responded as he snapped Viktor's shoulder back into place, a quick remedy to the dislocation resulting from a practice a mere half hour before. Understandably, Viktor cringed at the pain. "Bring that ice over here. Viktor, you have got to watch the deck!"

"The what?" Viktor asked with a wince.

"The ground," Chey responded as though everyone knew the terminology. "I just don't see how you can't avoid it when it's right in front of you."

"I misjudged my own skills, Chey."

"Well that's why we're doing the same run tomorrow. We'll keep running it until you get it right."

"Why are you doing all this, Chey?" Sergey chimed in.

"All what?"

"Teaching Viktor all this stuff. There doesn't seem to be any logic behind your decision to help."

"All great athletes need a coach, my friend. Besides, my sadistic side is pleased when I see Viktor slam into the ground. Come on, you know it's funny."

"True."

"Yeah. Also, there's the possibility that I might become famous when he gets famous. That's always a bonus. While we're talking about bonuses, I heard that Mariya and Andrey had a little tiff. What do you think about that, Nikolay?"

"I think things might be on the rocks for them, Chey," Nikolay responded. Sergey's expression lit up for a fraction of a second, but went blank soon after.

"I heard she wants to break it off," Viktor added breathlessly, still doubled over in pain, the ice on his shoulder now soaking his shirt. "What do you, in your wisdom, think of this, Chey?"

"Sounds to me like-"

"I know what you're trying to do, guys," Sergey interrupted. The jig was up.

"Oh, come on, man! We can't even drop a hint?!" exclaimed Chey. It was quite clear that he had concocted this little act.

"You can't blame us for trying, Sergey," Viktor gasped, still reeling from Chey's application of "hard knocks" medicine.

"I can't talk to her. Besides, she's just coming out of a relationship. I can't look like a jerk to her!"

"You got it all wrong, oh ye with little knowledge of the feminine mind. First, it's not what she thinks that matters, it's what her friends think. If she was getting dumped, and you suddenly appeared in her life like a knight in shining armor, her friends would think you're some kind of scumbag. However, she's the one breaking it off, not the other way around. Now only she'll think you're an opportunistic scumbag, and you can undo that easily."

For the first time ever, some of Chey's advise made sense, without requiring further explanation. It was like something was not right with the world. There was an awkward silence as they all realized this. Finally, "Does...does anyone need clarifying?"

Instantaneously, the room was filled with three voices quickly saying "No" and "We're okay" and "that's fine."

"You know what, Sergey?" Chey said after that moment of awkwardness. "I got an idea that might just get Mariya in your arms before you can say hello to her."


	4. Chapter 4,  Travels

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (excluding the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter 4

Travels

* * *

"Where are you going for break, Chey?"

"I'm going back to Romania, hang out at the reservation, make sure Vipey hasn't burnt the place to a crisp. And you, Viktor, are going to stay at the school and wait for the people from the Pro Quiditch League to come by and conduct your interview."

"What about Sergey and Nikolay?"

"They get to go home. Yeah, yeah, I know. 'The unfairness of it all.' They get to go home because I pity them."

"What?!"

"You get to talk to the Quiditch League, and they get to go home. That's fair, and that's final. We'll see you in January."

The Winter Holiday, as Chey called it (a byproduct of attending the politically correct schools in the United States), had arrived rather quickly. Not too quickly, however, to allow Chey time to hook Sergey and Mariya up together. Even after the fact, Sergey couldn't make sense of the series of events that led to the two of them sharing a table alone for dinner in a restaurant in the nearby town.

"So who's Vipey?" Mariya asked. She had begun hanging out with the four of them since she and Sergey got together.

"Vipey's his dragon," Sergey answered for Chey. This was the first time she had heard this bit of news, so the shock on her face was understandable.

"Had him since a hatchling, right after getting my handler's license," Chey explained. Still seeing the look of horror on her face, Chey tried to console her concerns. "He has not tried to bite me at all. Not since he bit me the first time."

"But that sounds dangerous, keeping a dragon!"

"Well, I'm an idiot, so it works out."

"Relax, Mariya," Nikolay added. "He's still alive after all these years, so he can't be too bad at his job. Have fun, Chey."

* * *

"Well, I don't see any craters, so I guess Vipey is content with his surroundings while I'm away. Let's see if Chuck still has his head and all ten fingers."

It was good to be back, if only for a few weeks. First thing was to greet Vipey and give him a fillet mignons.

"Did you behave yourself, Vipe?"

"He's been a very good boy, Chey," Chuck said. "How's Durmstrang?"

"Not bad. Things running okay with Brian?"

"Yeah. Vipey's been handling him. How long you here for and how much real work are you going to do?"

"Three weeks and as little as possible. Hey Vipe, wanna race?"

Vipey perked up at this suggestion. Chuck raised an eyebrow. He'd never heard of anyone racing a dragon before. Then again, he'd never met anyone who kept a dragon for a pet, so Chey was full of surprises. Yet Chuck felt he had to ask "Race?"

"Chuck, my friend, you have much to learn. Peruvians are all about speed, they love to match their skills against other things in the sky."

"I never knew that."

"That's because you never let the dragons fly very much around here." Chey summoned his broom from his belongings back in his office. "Let's go, Vipe!" Chey kicked off the ground and Vipey leaped into the air. They were off and nothing could stop them.

Chey and Vipey loved to fly. Didn't matter whether it was soaring thousands of feet over the countryside, or ten feet above the deck at top speed, swerving around trees and the landscape. Either way, they were flying, and there was a sense of freedom in that, something not attained anywhere else. It was nearly intoxicating.

They rocketed toward the sky, full tilt. The cool mist of the clouds stinging Chey's face slightly. They stopped propelling themselves up, allowing momentum to carry them higher. As they raced through the clouds, the brisk air felt better than any fountain of youth could ever be.

Now, with abruptness rivaling that of the rudest guest at the party, they rolled in the air, pointed down, and accelerated. They shot out of the cloud cover like meteorites, fully intent on getting to the ground below as quickly as possible. Chey held himself close to the broom handle, and Vipey folded his wings flat against his body.

Now, with mere feet before colliding with the ground, Vipey opened his wings, and Chey pulled up and pushed his feet down on the tail of the broom. The two of them missed the ground by inches, and began slaloming through the trees, their small flight adjustments having drastic effects at such a high speed. They navigated the terrain so expertly, not a single blade of grass was out of place.

"So it's really that good?" Chuck asked upon their return. Six hours later.

"Yes. And now I'm hungry. I haven't eaten since breakfast." Chey started moving toward the dining hall.

"Six hours of flying. You don't get tired?"

"Nah, adrenaline takes care of that. I'm starving when I get back and sore in the morning, but it's worth it."

"Well, if it's that good," Chuck said with genuine interest, "I guess I should get into this."

"Just remember: fly with a buddy."

"For safety?"

"Nah, just more interesting when it's a competition. One guy flying around alone looks like an idiot."

Chey and Vipey repeated their fast lane experience several times over the three weeks of Chey's vacation, each time increasing the bar for speed. On the third session, Chuck joined them. Though Chuck's lack of experience in racing slowed them down, it was nonetheless enjoyable to bring new company along.

* * *

December 24 rolled around, and Chey resolved to spend Christmas with Minerva. Actually, she gave an ultimatum: either he comes to England or she shows up uninvited to Romania. Rather than risk embarrassment in front of his coworkers, he figured it may be better to visit Minerva in England.

"I knew I'd get you in this school somehow, Chey!" Minerva cried out when he walked in her office door.

"Hey, you were right, Em," Chey began. Those words were enough to light up Minerva's face; she loved being right. "This is a big castle. Bigger than Durmstrang. Older too. Medieval?"

"Approximately," said a deep, gentle voice behind Chey. He turned around the first thing he saw was a long silver beard. Another half a second and Chey realized an old man was connected to it. A really old guy. "You must be Chey. I've heard a lot about you."

"That could go either way," Chey remarked. "Who's been talking?"

"Minerva has."

"Again, could go either way."

"Chey, this is Albus Dumbledore," Minerva chimed in.

"Your boss?" Chey asked.

"Quite," said Albus. "I'm rather fascinated by your talents."

"And of what talents have you been informed?"

"Most often I hear of your remarkable talent of turning into a fox. Minerva is very proud of it."

"I'm an animagus. Have been since the age of twelve. She taught me. Don't like to brag about it."

"That's very remarkable. However I'm more interested in the lost art of the illusionist."

"Yeah. That's trickier than transfiguring." Chey was getting bored with this guy's unending, yet calm enthusiasm.

"And that's what makes it all the more impressive. There haven't been many illusionists these past few centuries, so I'm honored to make your acquaintance, young master of illusions."

"Is he always like this?" Chey asked Minerva after a brief silence.

"I've been known to be quite eccentric on many an occasion," Albus interrupted, saving Minerva from making a potentially incriminating statement about her superior.

"Wow. Now I really want to come here to learn, Em," Chey sarcastically remarked.

"Well, if you ever change your opinion, know that you will always be welcome." His smile was annoyingly likable.

"Do you really think this is the best time for visitors, Minerva?" Now there was a voice Chey immediately disliked, coming from behind Albus. It sounded sleazy, condescending, and spiteful.

"Whatever do you mean, Severus?" Albus asked with a false surprise that was quite convincing.

"What with the Chamber of Secrets having been opened recently, it's not safe for the students, let alone a visitor who has no knowledge of the situation." How dare he assume Chey to be incapable of handling his own safety. Chey works with dragons! How much more dangerous a job would Chey need to prove his level of competence?

"If Chey was ever in any danger here," Minerva suddenly chimed in, "then none of us here have any hope of surviving. I'm quite sure he will be fine."

That was the first vote of confidence Chey had ever received from his aunt. He stared at her for half a minute, while the newly arrived Severus tried to assemble that sentence so it made sense, then asked what would make Chey more survivable than all the rest of the castle's residents. Chey did not quite hear Severus's question, as he was still reeling from Minerva's onslaught of praise, but comprehended enough of it to construct a response.

"Top of my class four years running at four different schools in the United States and Italy, never less than exceptional scores. I've invented my own spells and execute them all perfectly. Currently attending Durmstrang and last summer I volunteered as a keeper at the dragon reservation in Romania, handling every breed of dragon dangerous to man, with not a scratch on me. At the age of thirteen I qualified for disapparation and a Class Echo dragon handler license. Not that I like to brag, but I think I can handle whatever problem you got."

After a moment, Severus sneered "Your life is in your own hands," and he left.

"Who spit in his hair gel?" Chey piped up. The joke would have made more sense to someone in the United States, where the magical world is so closely integrated into the non-magical world.

Chey spent the day wandering the castle. He determined that the English are odd beyond even his standards. He spotted two identical fourth-years waving large cloves of garlic at a second-year. There was nothing in Chey's vivid imagination that would explain such behavior.

At one point, Chey stopped by their rather extensive library, and spotted something even more unusual than the garlic wielding dopplegangers: someone studying during vacation. There was no way anyone doing that voluntarily could possibly be sane. She looked about twelve, with the bushiest brown hair Chey had ever seen. Her focus on the pages was intense, and Chey couldn't resist breaking it.

"I hate to dispel your dreams, but you don't have laser vision."

"What?" She seemed truly shocked that someone else would be here, which indicated she may not be as crazy as he initially thought.

"No matter how hard you stare at the page, it won't burst into flames in a blaze of glory. I've tried. You have too sneeze on it."

"Sorry, I-"

"I guess you're unfamiliar with American eccentricies."

"So that's why I don't recognize you. You're not even from England!"

"What a relief. You aren't of the same spawn as the garlic twins."

"You saw that?" she asked in horror, as though it were some dark, horrible secret the castle's inhabitants had to hide for the sake of visitors.

"Hard to miss," Chey said as he sat down across from her. "As a matter of fact, they kind of reminded me of a coworker of mine. Fortunately only in appearance. Really bright red hair."

"Yes, that's Fred and George. It's terrible that they're tormenting Harry so. Oh, I'm Hermoine."

"Name's Chey. You spend every day in here or do occasionally come up for air?"

"Well, unlike others, I take my studies seriously."

"There's serious studying, then there's beating a dead horse. Take it easy, girl."

"My O.W.L.s are less than three years away! I have to be ready for them!"

"Oh don't even mention those!" Chey stopped her. "My aunt want's me to take them. I can't understand what would possess her to think they're anything more than a waste of my time."

"They are an excellent indication of what you know," she said very matter-of-factly.

"I think I already have a pretty good idea what I know. Perfect scores at every school I attend are a pretty good indication that I know quite a bit."

She seemed stunned at this. Clearly, she didn't label Chey as someone who would attain anything close to a perfect score on anything. "Well...they also help you decide what careers you'll be ready for." Now that she had a firm argument, she more confidently said "That's important."

"Yeah, that's a load of bull. I already got a job with dragons." She started to warn him about the dangers, when Chey interrupted her. "And don't start with all that 'it's dangerous' cliche. I'm licensed and everything."

"But you're too young!"

"That's a new one. But irrelevant. Skill overrules age back home in the U.S."

"Really?"

"Well, more so in the magical world."

"What's magic like in America?" She seemed genuinely interested in what the magical world was like in his home, a first for anyone he ever met in Europe.

"It's nothing like over here, that's for sure."

"What do you mean?"

"It's not nearly as segregated. We don't hide in our homes. We don't have whole towns where none but magicians are allowed. We live among the general populace, all while keeping a tight lid on our skills."

"So wizards-"

"Don't call us that."

"What?"

"Don't call us wizards. We're warlocks."

"Why? What's the difference?"

"It's a pride thing. Goes back to the American Revolution. The magical world became divided into two factions: wizards who wished to attain independence through diplomacy and the aptly named warlocks who desired a fight for freedom. Pretty obvious who won."

"What are the women called?"

"Still witches. It's a homage to the people killed at Salem."

"So if warlocks and witches live among everyone else, how do you keep the magical world a secret?"

"It's like a game. 'Who can live the most magical life while hiding it the best?' In fact, we can't even recognize each other on the street. Not even being in a warlock's house is a clear tip-off. The only way we can tell is if we congregate at witch and warlock meeting spots, or if we see each other at a Department of Sorcery office."

"The what?"

"The Department of Sorcery back home is like your Ministry of Magic, only on a larger scale. The country is too big to have a single office, so there are smaller offices distributed all over, with a large central office in the nation's capital."

"How many offices are there?"

"One central, fifty sub-offices, and splinter offices for the sub-offices. It's all pretty complicated, but figure that there's some sort of office for every fifteen towns or so."

"What are the schools like?"

"Exactly like non-magical schools; the exception being the curriculum. Really, the entire magical world in the States keeps up the non-magical one. We watch TV, listen to the radio, keep up with fashion, drive cars, fly on planes. Heck, some of us even run non-magical businesses, with varying degrees of success."

At that moment, another student entered the library, and rather than look through the stacks of books, he merely cried "Hermoine! Harry and I are going down to the Great Hall! Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding! You coming?"

She responded with a sigh.

"Clever minds do need nourishment," Chey remarked.

"It was good talking to you," she replied as she gathered her things and walked away. As she packed up, Chey caught sight of what she had been reading: advanced potions, high level transfiguration, and even magical theory. That last one was something Chey was certain had pretty much isolated itself to the American Department of Sorcery. For the past fifty years, they had been applying modern sciences to explain the phenomenon of magic, and in an underhanded effort to gain more scientists to assist the cause, schools had begun teaching magical theory, Chey's best subject. It was how he was able to invent his own spells.

But why would a twelve year old be studying magical theory?


	5. Chapter 5, Narcissism

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (excluding the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter 5

Narcissism

* * *

The next day, as simple addition would provide, was December 25, Christmas day.

Chey and Minerva had an understanding: since they were both terrible at buying gifts for each other, they would both save their money for more meaningful gifts for other people. However, Minerva had received a few gifts from students.

"Working hard on that passing grade, aren't they?" Chey said.

"I try not to see it that way," Minerva said as she opened a glass vase. "Besides, none of their gifts affect their achievements at all."

"Well, damn my American cynicism, but assuming evil intentions prepares you for the worst cast scenario."

That evening, there was a small Christmas party in the Great Hall. Decorations filled the spaces where attendants didn't. Albus was leading them in carols, and a rather large man, who Chey suspected was half-giant, had apparently indulged a bit too much in the butterbeer (a drink Chey had never heard of, which tasted like neither butter nor beer), and was following along in a boisterous, inebriated Scottish accent.

Chey took a look up at the staff table and saw none other than Grumps McGurt. Yes, it was Severus, but he seemed to be in a less delightful (if possible) mood. He was speaking to another teacher, this one seemingly the polar opposite of Severus. Actually, it was less speaking to and more ignoring the blonde, wavy haired man with bold lilac-colored robes while being spoken to. But it mattered not, for anyone who could annoy Constable Crabby was a potential friend of Chey's.

"Trying to get something out of your teeth, Severus?" Chey asked while approaching. Severus made no effort to reply. Instead, the more talkative member of their one way conversation responded.

"Why, you're a new face!" he said with an annoying enthusiasm. He had really straight teeth. Really straight teeth that he couldn't help but show off.

"Visiting a relative," Chey replied.

"And who might you be visiting?"

"That would be Professor McGonnagal," Severus suddenly interrupted.

"So YOU must be Chey!" Suddenly, the man was much less pleasant. "Minerva has been giving you such praise, saying you would easily excel in even my seventh year class!"

Severus gave a look that said something along the lines of "Like that really means anything."

"Let's just say I test well." Now Chey directed a question towards him. "And you are?"

"AH! Of course! Oh, but how foolish of me, I haven't brought any photographs. Ah, I know!" He suddenly pulled out a scrap of parchment, and began scribbling on it.

"Uh, all I asked was your name." Chey corrected. All of a sudden, there was a flicker of life in Severus's face, the first Chey had ever seen in him.

"You don't know who he is?" Severus asked, as though this was unheard of.

"Nope. Not ringing any bells."

Now Severus's expression had turned smug, and Chey was spending half his cognitive ability decoding why this would be, and the other half figuring out who Mr. Teeth was.

"Perhaps you've read one of my books!" the magnanimous staff member suggested.

"Possibly. Fire away."

He began a reciting a list. He rambled off books with moronic sounding names that would never sell back in the States based on the titles alone. They went from _Break with a Banshee _to _Voyages with Vampires_, to each one Chey replied either a "no," "nope," "nein," or a "non." Finally, the man got to _Wanderings with Werewolves_.

"Now that I did read," Chey responded and the man was overjoyed. "Fascinating novel." The man's face changed faster than the blink of an eye.

"N-novel?" he asked with a slightly terrified stutter. He regained a bit of composure and continued "What do you mean by 'novel?'"

"Exactly what everyone means by 'novel.' Unless they've changed the definition, I'm talking about a work of fiction."

Severus's smugness turned into a sinister sneer. There was a dash of disappointment as the man got up suddenly, muttering some unintelligible excuse.

"That was Gilderoy Lockhart, our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

Chey groaned a long "Oh."

"Now you've heard of him?"

"Yeah. He may be famous over here, but he's a joke back home."

Chey came to the realization that he had just deflated an ego. And now Chey understood Serverus's sneer. He was just glad Lockhart's bubble had been burst.

* * *

Afterwards, Chey decided to wander the halls a little bit, just to get away from the noise. He heard a bit of commotion in the direction of what he figured was the dungeons. When he arrived on the scene, he deduced that two second years, (who looked burly enough to be mistaken for being a year or two older) had apparently been caught out of bounds by an older student with fire-red hair who clearly held a slight position of power.

"Well, get off to your dormitories," said the older student. Chey noticed a small pin on his robes with a stylized letter P. "It's not safe to go wandering around dark corridors these days."

"You are," pointed out the shorter and rounder second year.

"I," started the older one, building confidence, "am a prefect. Nothing's about to attack _me_."

In a startling instant, another second-year arrived on scene. His voice had a bit of a drawl, and his bleached blonde hair was slicked back so that his forehead resembled Minerva's hair in a bun.

"There you are. Have you two been pigging out in the Great Hall all this time? I've been looking for you; I want to show you something." He glanced at the so-called prefect and sneered "And what're you doing down here, Weasley?"

Weasley? Could this stuck-up, starchy kid possibly be related to Chuck? He had the red hair, but he acted nothing like him. But didn't Chuck say something about having three brothers and a sister attending this school?

"You want to show a bit more respect to a school prefect!" he said in a controlled outrage. "I don't like your attitude!"

The blonde brat (Chey's preliminary label for the little slimeball) sneered the greatest sneer of all sneers that Chey had ever seen sneered, motioned for the other two to follow, and led them away. Now only

"That was rather arrogant of you," Chey said, startling the prefect.

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

"You made the assumption that whatever creature this is that everyone seems to be terrified of will respect authority."

"I think I'm more capable of defending myself," he said indignantly.

"Let's examine that statement, shall we? What exactly is everyone so afraid of these days?"

"The creature that Salazar Slytherin kept in his secret chamber."

"And what sort of creature is this?"

"Well, no one knows for sure."

"Has this creature attacked before?"

"Yes, three times, four victims."

"And who has this creature attacked?"

"A cat, a first year, a second year, and a ghost."

"And what happened to the victims?"

"They were petrified." Now this kid (Chey's immediate description for him, despite him being a year older than Chey) was starting to understand the gravity of the situation.

"Okay," Chey began to summarize. "We are dealing with an unknown creature capable of petrification, which seems to attack indiscriminately, and can even inflict said malady upon the dead. You want to reconsider your previous statement?"

"You think you would do any better?" The prefect tried to turn the argument back on Chey. It was an amateur's arguing tactic, and Chey was a professional arguer.

"Seeing as I have a far greater comprehension of the situation, I'm pretty sure I'd stand a far better chance." Now Chey had an idea. "Where was the most recent attack?"

"Near the transfiguration classroom, a little more than a week ago. Why?"

"I want to check out the scene. You know, scope it out."

"Wait, do you even go to this school?"

"No, I'm visiting someone for the holidays. Now can we go check it out?"

* * *

"Okay, where was the kid and where was the ghost?" Chey asked when they arrived on the scene.

"Finch-Fletchly was lying over here," (Chey took note of this) "and Nearly-Headless Nick," (Chey gave a look of bewilderment) "yes, that really is his name, was floating just over there."

Chey took a moment to think about this, then pointed in the direction of Minerva's classroom door. "Someone set off a wand explosion over there."

"To settle the crowd," said Minerva, who appeared on scene, nearly startling Chey.

"You were here, Em?" he asked, and the prefect was shocked.

"Professor! You know him?"

"Ah, Mister Weasley. This is my nephew, Chey. Chey, this is Percy Weasley. He is a prefect in Gryffindor House."

"You got a brother named Charlie?"

"Yes! How do you know Charlie?"

"I work with him in Romania during the summer. So, Em, the kid was over here and the ghost there, correct?"

"Yes," she affirmed.

"And you set off a wand explosion over there, yes?"

"That's right. The crowd that had gathered had gotten to be a bit too excited."

"Any other spells been cast around here since then?" Chey inquired.

"I conjured a fan over here so that the ghost could be moved."

Chey stared at the spot for a moment, then said "Yeah, that's your spell all right."

"What are you doing?" Percy asked, with an understandably perplexed expression.

"You've never seen magical analysis before?" Chey asked.

"It's not exactly a part of the curriculum, Chey," Minerva explained.

"Shame. Okay, Percy, time for a crash course. Back in the States they're studying the very causes of magic, applying scientific methods to determine the inner workings of spell casting, and in an underhanded move to get more people into the cause, they've started teaching this stuff to students."

"What does this have to do with what happened here?" Percy asked. He seemed to be following so far.

"Well, casting a spell has two effects: the immediate and the lasting. All magic leaves a bit of residue, and a select number of people can see it if they know what they're looking for. Some of us can even tell what kind of spell it was and how long ago it was."

"What are you seeing, Chey?" Minerva asked anxiously.

"Gimme a minute." He slowly strolled around the corridor, tilting his head now and then.

When he analyzed magic, everything made sense. There could be a four thousand pound gorilla in the room, and it would seem perfectly logical. If one could imagine a visible, yet completely transparent cloud, that would accurately define what Chey was looking for. For him, magic was truly real. He could see it a mile away, feel is as though it were concrete, classify it by it's taste and smell, and even listen to it's whispers. In fact, there was a whole world of nasty little secrets Chey could reveal by using this method. He could even use it to find a specific person anywhere in the world.

This was not a skill Chey developed as a result of years of training. In fact, he had been able to analyze magic ever since his third year of schooling. He couldn't really explain to anyone, save for Minerva, what prompted this remarkable ability. It's not that he didn't know, it's just that no one would believe him. However, the more time he spent in this school in England, the more he thought certain people would understand. Certainly, this Albus character would understand the concept, and maybe even that Hermoine girl.

Suddenly, he came to a stop, and turned his back to the places where the boy and the ghost were found, the ghost's location being closer to him. "Right here."

"You found something?" Minerva asked.

"This is the point of origin. This is where the spell was cast. Although, it's more like a curse. A powerful one, at that."

"What can you discern, young man?" said another voice from behind Chey. A quick turnaround informed Chey that it was Albus. "Well, Mister McGonnagal? What kind of curse was cast here?"

After a brief moment of silence, Chey determined something surprising. "The victims got lucky," he said sounding uncharacteristically concerned.

"What do you mean?" asked Percy. "What could be worse than being petrified?"

"The curse was supposed to kill them." he replied.

"And you're sure about this?" Albus inquired in an unusually grave tone.

"Well, it's not quite the _Avada_, but it's close. I'd say you've got either an extremely dangerous creature, or an even more dangerous person in control of it."

"Any idea what it may be?" Minerva asked him, her tone matching that of her superior.

"Nothing comes to mind. Best advise I can give you is to look through a list of illegal magical creatures, because there's no way any government would legalize something like this." Chey started to walk towards them, then stopped at the spot where the ghost was found. _What's this,_ he asked himself. "Something happened here, too."

"What? Where Sir Nicholas was found?" Percy asked. Chey would have been surprised by the boy's grasp of the concept had he not been preoccupied by his recent discovery.

"Yeah, definitely," Chey started. "Wait...no." _Could I be wrong? It feels like the curse from before, but just a little different._ "Maybe...yes!" _Now I'm certain. The spell changed right here!_ "The spell was altered when it passed over this spot." A look of confusion warranted a response. "Spells can be altered after they've been cast. Usually, it's by a reflection spell, or sometimes a common mirror will do it. I think that the ghost modified the curse so it no longer had the power to kill."

Albus pondered over this for a moment, then asked "Is there anything else unusual here?"

"Come to think of it, yeah. There's a disturbance over near the windowsill. It's like a thousand small insects have marched in a line and disturbed the magical residue." _Will insects do that?_ "Nah, it's probably nothing."

One further moment of pondering ensued, then finally Albus said "Thank you, Chey. Mister Weasley, it is late even for a prefect, so I suggest you retire to your dormitory." Percy took the hint, and headed off. Now, with the unconcerned party having left, Albus asked "At what time will you be departing, Chey?"

"Tomorrow morning. Any later, and Vipey will pitch a fit."

* * *

_Author's Note_

I suppose it's about bloody time I said something to introduce myself and the story. I'm Termite, and I'm a student learning to be a filmmaker. More on my profile page.

I hope you have been enjoying this story. It has been two years in the making, and spans from book two through book seven. I decided to do something a little different with this story. Rather than change the canon to suit my needs, like so many other writers in this community have, I introduced a new character, Chey, and his actions revolve around the events of the books (not the movies, I'm something of a purist). I actually have the main plot all figured out, save for the seventh book (which won't be long).

Enjoy the story, for there's a lot more to come (as of posting this, I'm working on Chapter 16). I appreciate any reviews and comments you may have.

Termite


	6. Chapter 6, Family History

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (excluding the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Six

Family History

* * *

As Chey left the Hogwarts grounds in the direction of the apparition barrier, he heard whispers of a student who grew whiskers and a tail. Chey had seen this before: it's what happens when a Polyjuice potion is used with a non-human transformation sample. The result is a horrible, not to mention painful, halfway transformation into the animal. Chey always wondered what it would be like to be half-dragon, but the reversal process shied him away from it. His talent as an animagus for shape shifting into a fox would have to tide him over.

Before Chey departed, he decided to pay a visit to the patient, just to scare them by explaining the long and tedious reversal process. Much to his surprise, it was the laser-eye library girl, still pouring over a book.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he deadpanned. It looked like her potion worked very well. She even had the cat's eyes.

"It's you! How did you find out about this?!"

"Hard not to. Just a suggestion: verify the source of the sample before adding it in."

"I got the hair myself."

"Why were you making such a complicated potion? You're years away from that kind of level? Or did you want a challenge?"

"Yeah, that's it," she said in a way that said there was more to the story. If she was that reluctant to talk about it, perhaps Chey shouldn't pry. Then again, it could be a fascinating story.

"No it isn't. Who were you trying to impersonate?"

"Nobody! I was just trying to see if it could be done!"

"People spray dust bunnies with hair spray and run over them will roller blades to see if they ignite; they don't mix a batch of polyjuice just to say they can. And the only reason for impersonating someone these days is to extract information. What were you trying to find out?"

With a sigh, she reluctantly gave in. "I was trying to find out who opened the Chamber of Secrets."

"You know," Chey began, "back home they got a word for people like you: vigilante."

"Oh, stop it!" she said indignantly. Chey could have sworn her whiskers twitched and hair stood up on end that instant. Perhaps enough was enough on that sensitive topic. However, speaking of sensitive topics:

"Why are you studying magical theory?"

"What?" she asked in genuine confusion. It did seem an odd question to ask.

"Isn't that subject reserved in this country for schooling beyond seventh-year?"

"How would you know about that sort of subject?"

"It's standard curriculum from the third year back in the States. Why are you reading up on such complicated material?"

"I like to challenge myself."

"And you understand it?"

"Not entirely." She seemed disappointed, as though she'd never before come across a subject she didn't understand. Her whiskers drooped a little.

"Want a jump start?"

She didn't even voice a reply; the intensity of her eyes gave him the answer.

"Okay then," he began. "The phenomenon known as magic is centered around one basic concept: no matter what you do to change it, it always stays the same. Magic is not an ability held by a select few. It is a physical force borrowed by those who can comprehend its existence. We, as humans, are not magical in any way; we have no magical properties. The process of using magic boils down to the sculptor analogy: the artist is not made of the clay that consists of the sculpture, he just borrows it and manipulates it until he achieves the desired results." Her expression was blank. "You got this so far?"

"I think so."

"Good, 'cause that's it."

"What?"

"You really think I'm going to give you the whole answer?"

"Well, you gave me that impression!"

"If you're really serious about learning this, you'll work for it on your own.

"But..." It was no good, for Chey was already on his way out.

"When you've figured out what I've already said, then we'll talk. Until then, you're on your own." And with that, he was out the door.

* * *

After spending some more time in Romania with Vipey (and dealing with a rather rambunctious adolescent Shortsnout, from which he received a cut on his right forearm), Chey made his way back to Durmstrang.

During his absence, it seemed that Sergey and Mariya had grown even closer. There was a betting pool that the students (and one faculty member) had formed and placed wagers on when they'd break up, only Chey couldn't participate, because his bet was "they'll never break up," and that option wasn't on the board.

There was one thing Chey was anxious to know the instant he arrived.

"How'd your interview go, Viktor?"

"I start training with the Bulgarian team this summer." Viktor said it in the passive way that only he could accomplish.

"Awesome! Now, wasn't my training worth it?"

"No."

"Yeah, you say that now, but when you need someone to thank at the inevitable awards banquet, we both know who'll have a special mention, won't we? Whatcha starin' at, Nikolay?"

It was the day Chey returned from Romania, and Chey, Victor, Nikloy, Sergey, and Mariya were all in the student lounge. Chey was in the doorway, talking to Victor who was in a chair by the fireplace, while Sergey and Mariya (who were blissfully unaware of the students' betting pool) sat together on a sofa halfway across the room. Nikolay was standing in front of the window in the corner, staring out into the distance, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hands.

Nikolay failed to respond to Chey's inquiry, and only continued staring out the window.

"Someone string your pants up a flagpole, Nikolay?" Chey asked as he approached.

"A bunch of veela checked into the nearby town's inn, and they got the room with the big windows," Viktor explained.

"And he's trying to get a glimpse," added Sergey.

"I need a telescope," Nikolay said with near desperation.

Chey conjured just such a telescope with a sigh and the remark "You're pathetic."

Nikolay was quick to retort. "Hey, Sergey has Mariya, you have your dragon, and Viktor has his Quiditch team. I need something to love, too."

"Chey," Mariya started, "was Sergey ever like that before we got together?" That question sparked a look of terror in her boyfriend's face.

"Well," Chey considered the possible responses, and the outcomes they would trigger, but decided to avoid the wrath of his friend should he give him a less than stellar reputation, "not since I've known him."

A silent sigh of relief ensued from Sergey, while at the same time, Mariya still had some suspicion. Chey figured that a little suspicion was a good thing: just another thing for the two of them to argue about, then grow ever closer afterwards.

"Have a look, guys," Nikolay said quietly. "They're beautiful."

"I bet they are," said Viktor. "But I'm going to get some dinner."

"Sergey?" Nikolay continued extending invitations, but all Sergey did was point at Mariya, indicating he has better things to look at. "Chey?"

"Nah," he replied while sitting down on the sofa adjacent to Viktor. This surprised Nikolay. Who would say no to such a sight?

"Why not? What's your excuse?"

"Veela's don't exactly send me on a one-way trip to Cloud Nine-and-a-Half."

"What do you mean?"

"'Veela Charm,' as it's commonly known, doesn't work on other people with veela blood." As a look of confusion swept across the room, Chey mentally kicked himself. Now he had to explain himself. It's not that he kept it a secret because he was ashamed. As a matter of fact, he was proud of his heritage. It's just that no one ever believes him when he tells them. With a sigh, he began. "My great grandmother was a veela."

"But you're..." Mariya started.

"A guy? Yep. The effects of veela blood are significantly reduced when it's below twenty-five percent, and I'm twelve-and-a-half. All I got was hair, eyes, and immunity to their charm."

"I never knew that,"Nikolay chimed in. Chey's explanation had pried his face away from the window, a remarkable feat.

"Well, it doesn't really concern most people," Chey continued. "Actually, it's kind of fun. You see, I can sense when someone has veela blood, and the fact that I can ignore the girls that try to charm me really annoys them."

Unfortunately Chey's continued lecture had bored Nikolay, for his eyes once again plastered themselves to the view beyond the window. "I'm going to introduce myself to them," he said.

"Let me know if and when they stop laughing," Chey commented, but his witty remark was never heard by Nikolay, for he raced out the door with true intent. "Oh well. Guess he'll have to learn the hard way."

"I think I'll follow him," said Viktor. "But only to the dining hall. You coming?"

"We are," answered Sergey, and Mariya nodded in agreement.

"I already ate," said Chey. "Besides, I should probably get a jump on some homework."

"Suit yourself," Viktor called back, seemingly so hungry that he decided to save time by answering while walking out the door.

But Chey had no homework to get a head start on. In fact, he had practically completed the entire curriculum required of him for the whole year. It seemed odd that his friends didn't pick up on the irony of his comment, but it was a relief. Chey just wanted some time to reflect on a few things, most notably his heritage.

He had never known his mother's side of the family. Sure, they sent him a Christmas card once in a while, but it was mistakenly addressed to his mother, referred to by her maiden name. Alana Wesson, it would always read, and never with a return address. Chey had the impression that they never realized that she had ever gotten married. Minerva once told him that his mother didn't keep very close contact with her family, but certainly they would have known that she had died, wouldn't they?

Speaking of letters...

"Raithe?" Chey's pet raven had appeared outside the window with an envelope in his claws. Chey got up and opened the window, and the sleek-black bird landed on the windowsill. "What've you got there?"

"Speak of the devil." It was addressed to his mother, only her maiden name was used. There was no return address, just like all their letters. It was lucky that the post birds were aware enough to forward his parents' mail to him.

Today, it seemed that his mother's Christmas card was delivered a little late. It was the usual "We are well, how are you?" cliche. If only the Wessons would say more about themselves, just so that he could perhaps find them. It was always signed "With love, Mother and Father." Didn't they find it odd that his mother never answered them? If they really meant the "love" part of those infernal letters, wouldn't they even make an attempt to speak to her face to face?

Chey would love to talk to them. Didn't he have a right to know his own family? Didn't they have a right to know that their beloved daughter had died?

Chey was furious. He never knew his mother's family, and he had no idea who to blame for it.

Then again, all Chey knew of his father's side was Minerva. For all he knew, they were the last two McGonnagals left.

At least he knew a little bit of the McGonnagal Family's history. Before his father's death, he owned a quarter of the American economy. For some reason, that part he owned (and his father before him, and so on) always prospered. It wasn't by any magical influence, just that the McGonnagals were very good at business.

Of course, now all that money belonged to Chey. At least it will once he's out of school. For the time being it was controlled by a board of directors, assigned by his father's Last Will. Chey couldn't wait march into that stuffy boardroom and take business back, and maybe keep a few of those starchy old geezers around as attorneys or accountants. Perhaps one of them could be a butler? Until then, however, he could only hope they were doing their best to keep as much of his father's money intact as possible. They seemed to be doing a good job of it so far, so maybe one of them could be his vice-president. Chey wondered how many of those guys were still alive.

Another bird appeared outside the window with a letter in claw. Chey didn't recognize it at first, lost in his own thoughts, then noticed the letter held by the large osprey (owls were strictly a staple of the European wizard postal system) was actually addressed to him. Upon opening it he discovered it was the directors' annual progress report. It was a lot of numbers that made sense to an accountant, but after looking at it long enough, Chey figured that things were going well. Otherwise, some of these numbers would be printed in red ink, or have a little minus sign preceding them. Since all numbers were in black ink and none were below zero, Chey neglected to panic.

After a moment it became obvious to Chey that the only real family he knew was Minerva, and he only saw her a few times out of the year. Another few seconds of though and Chey included Vipey and Raithe as family, but the thought of loneliness still hit him pretty hard. Sure, he had friends from school, but his ratio of schools attended to years of education was extraordinarily high, so any real connection was hardly viable. There was Chuck, but he was just a coworker.

Chey was beginning to wonder if he was truly alone. Then he snapped back into reality. If he really was alone, he would perpetuate it by living in a swamp under a tree root. Since he did not find himself in that situation, he surmised that there had to be someone nearby with some sort of real connection with him. Either that, or there might be someone in the future. Yes, that was very possible.

The newly attained mentality calmed Chey to the point of returning his stress levels to normal. It was at that moment that Sergey and Mariya entered the room, laughing.

Chey, still a little dazed from his venture into the depths of his mind, took a moment to notice them. When his thoughts finally reached the room, a look at the clock revealed that he had been standing alone in the room for well over an hour.

"Did I miss something while I was up here?" By this time they had made it to the window and were looking out in earnest.

"Viktor convinced Nikolay to get some dinner before talking to the veela at the inn," Sergey began.

"And during dinner," Mariya continued, "Nikolay convinced Viktor to go with him."

"And now they're treading through waist-deep snow just to make fools of themselves," Sergey finished.

"So they're going to freeze their toes off and get their clothes soaked just for the chance to say hello to some women who are possibly ten years older than they are who don't even care if they exist?" Chey summed up.

"That's about it," Mariya confirmed, and looked at him with a smile.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen," Chey announced, "I have officially seen it all. Goodnight."

"What's that in your hand?" Mariya asked, referring to the letters.

Suddenly the flood of thoughts that he had only just dealt with came rushing back to him. For only a moment, a look of sadness flashed across his face. Then, with an equally quick recovery, he said "Just some late Christmas cards." It seemed to satisfy her curiosity, and she left it at that.

"Oh, I hate it when that happens," Sergey complained, still watching Nikolay and Viktor struggle through the snow. "What is so hard about sending those things on time?"

With a half-hearted laugh, Chey turned and left the room, letters from the remnants of his family still clutched in his hand.

* * *

Author's Note

Okay, seriously: who saw that coming? No you didn't, you liars! I hope this makes you realize that this story is not going to be all sunshine and roses (because I hide from the sun and step on flowers).

A note to the people who found this story via a character search: Because my main character is completely of my own design and not of Rowling's, Chey is not in the list. As such, the Character Slots are determined by the people Chey interacts with most in the most recent chapter. I hope that clears up some confusion.

As of the posting of this chapter, I have just completed Chapter 16. (I was on vacation and went on a creativity binge.) To those of you who now ask why there are not sixteen chapters online right now, my explanation is selfish and simple: In the event of severe writer's block (which has happened) or I become too busy with work and school (also very possible), It is good to have a buffer of chapters I can post a new chapter once a week (at different times during the week in an underhanded attempt to attract more readers who log on at different times) so you will not feel like there is a drought. I'm thinking of you when I do this. Also, I like to keep at least the three most recent chapters unposted so I can make slight changes to fit the events of the single most recent, as I have had to do in the past.

I thank you all for reading,

Again, I appreciate all comments, especially good ones, but I'll take bad ones if you're nice about it. A little constructive criticism never hurt anyone, not even me.


	7. Chapter 7, Inhibitions

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Seven

Inhibitions

* * *

Spring had slowly arrived, and tension was building in the Durmstrang Castle. Over the proceding weeks, Andrey began to regret ever splitting up with Mariya, and began his attempts to win her back. However, there was a slight obstacle: Sergey.

"Sergey, man, you should be careful around that Andrey character," Chey warned one afternoon. "He seems a little more unhinged since he lost Mariya."

"I broke up with him," Mariya tried to explain, naturally taking a portion of the blame to protect Sergey.

"It's way more simple than that: he doesn't care," Chey said. "Andrey has lost something and he won't stop until he get's it back."

"That's so...primal," Sergey observed.

"Exactly. He's pretty much become the infantile monkey who's lost his pellet." This was the sort of analogy that left his friends in the dark, so Chey had to come up with a new one so they would understand. "Uh...the buzzard had his meal snatched by the hyena." Now all understood, except for Mariya who had a look of annoyance.

"Are you saying I'm nothing more than a meal?" she said in a rather haughty tone.

Chey was in trouble. He knew from others' experience that saying the wrong thing would incur a fury that would make a pre-menstrual Horntail proud. Fortunately, Chey knew it would be best to say nothing: "Mariya, it might be best to rethink the context of my words," which, in a sense, translated into saying nothing.

"So do you think Andrey will try something drastic?" Nikolay wondered. They were all shocked to hear from him. The veelas had still not moved out of the inn, and Nikolay had spent much of that time starting out that window. Occasionally Viktor would join him in staring at the women, but only when he was sure no one was paying attention to who was near the window. News had spread about the inn's residents rather quickly, and the popular opinion regarding the view in that direction had increased dramatically among males.

"I don't think he's foolish enough to do anything in plain sight," Viktor responded, "or even in a way that Mariya would find out. But you may want to watch your back when you're alone, Sergey."

"Yeah, walk with a buddy, man," Chey agreed. "Or better yet, with Viktor. No one's going to mess with rising Quidditch superstar Viktor Krum."

Viktor shot Chey a look that said he preferred his privacy, and Chey responded with an expression stating that his friend's safety took precedence.

* * *

It was a few days following that conversation, and the five of them were in the town, though Sergey and Mariya decided to split off from the others to spend time together, so it was down to Chey, Viktor, and Nikolay. During their walk down the main road, they suddenly lost track of Nikolay. Chey caught a fleeting glance of him entering the restaurant, and signaled Viktor to follow. They hardly had to search for him once inside, for he hadn't made it much past the door.

"What was that about?" Chey confronted him once inside. "If being in our company is that bad why didn't you say so?"

"They came in here," Nikolay said in a slight daze.

"Who?"

"Over there." Viktor pointed out the veela girls who were staying at the inn. Now that Chey had a closer look at them, they couldn't be much more than eighteen years old, perhaps fresh out of schooling. They had apparently stopped by for lunch and taken a table near the window, laughing at the men who tripped over their own feet upon seeing them.

"You know, that reminds me," Chey began to recall. "Whatever happened that night you and Viktor went over to meet them?" There was a moment of hesitation, and Chey could only imagine the two of them were debating whether to tell Chey the truth, when finally Viktor recanted the story.

"We got to the front door of the tavern and Nikolay decided to bail. He turned right around without a word. I didn't see any point in going by myself, so I followed him back to the castle."

Chey could do little but sigh and berate them. "Didn't you guys learn anything from when I was hooking Sergey up with Mariya?"

"How did you do that, by the way?" Sergey asked.

"Easy: get her to know me. Then, I become likeable enough to talk to, just not dateable. Then, offer to meet her for lunch while she still has doubts about me, and she shows up at the agreed upon meeting spot wishing she didn't have to talk to me and she finds Sergey's shining face waiting with instructions to put the bill on my tab. They strike up a delightful conversation and afterwards I show up and offer to make a rain check with both of them. I wind up never showing up for that rain check, and they don't care because they are together."

"What were we supposed to learn from that?!"

"In order to get the girl," Chey explained, "you have to talk to the girl."

"But that's just it, Chey," Nikolay pleaded. "We can't talk to them. It's impossible for us."

"You two seem to have an interesting reaction to the veela charm," Chey began to wonder. "Rather than commit pathetic acts of public exhibitionism as an effort to garner their attention, you two are scared out of your pants. No matter. Just leave that to me."

"What are you going to do?" Viktor asked while staring at the girls.

"I am going to demolish your inhibitions. Take a look: the bar's full and the only table out there with three empty seats is currently occupied by those three girls. Table for three!" Chey called out to the host.

"I'm afraid there are no more tables, sir," the host responded.

"Oh, we don't mind sharing a table with someone, do we, guys?" Silence from Chey's companions. "How about over there?" Chey suggested while slipping a preemptive tip into the host's hand.

The host seemed to think this over, then "Just one moment, sir." He approached the girls' table, and after speaking with them a moment motioned for Chey's group to approach.

"And that, gentlemen, is what we call taking life by the horns," Chey explained as they neared the table. "Good afternoon, ladies."

They seemed somewhat delighted by Chey and his companions. The three veelas were sitting next to each other, halfway encircling the round table. The three remaining empty seats were all in a row opposite the girls. Determined to eliminate both Viktor and Nikolay's fears as quickly as possible, Chey took the center seat, forcing Viktor and Nikolay to sit next to a girl each. Chey proceeded to introduce himself.

"I'm Chey, and this is Viktor and Nikolay."

"I am Natalia," said the center one of the group, clearly the more decisive of the group, "and this is Catherine," she indicated the one next to Nikolay, "and Alexandra," indicating Viktor's seating partner.

"We've seen you ladies around lately. It's nice to finally meet you. Oh, have you ordered yet?" Chey had to keep control of the situation, and the best way to do that was to offer to pay for the meal.

"Not yet," said Catherine. She was rather quiet, almost mousy. Alexandra, on the other hand, simply followed the conversation with her eyes in a reserved manner.

"Well, in return for putting up with us, lunch is on me," Chey announced. He was sure there was no way for the girls to get out of a free lunch.

"Oh, we couldn't ask that of you," Catherine lamented. Impossible! She found a way. No matter, Chey could rebound this and still segue into conversation that played up his friends' positive qualities.

"Perish the though. It would be like asking me to get something off the top shelf. Besides, Viktor needs his strength. All that Quidditch training really takes a toll."

"You play Quidditch?" Alexandra asked, looking at Viktor.

"Yes he does," Chey answered for the still silent Viktor. "In fact, he just signed a deal with the Bulgarian Team." A look of awe came over her face, meaning she was very interested in him, so Chey no longer had to worry about him. Now to focus on helping Nikolay. Trouble was, there was nothing remarkable about him that Chey could think of. Chey racked his brains, but he couldn't think of anything. He wasn't much at flying, his grades weren't the best, and he had such a distant personality.

"What about you?" Catherine asked, clearly already interested in Nikolay and under the impression that talented people tended to travel in groups. Chey had to think fast: What did Nikolay do? All he ever did recently was schoolwork and stare out the window. The clock was ticking, and Chey had nothing.

"I...I'm a writer," Nikolay suddenly chimed in. It seemed he had overcome his inhibitions a lot quicker than Chey had expected. Wait a minute...Nikolay is a writer?

It didn't matter. Catherine was fascinated by him.

Turned out Nikolay was a romance fiction writer. (There would be time later for Chey to hassle him about that.) Catherine just devoured it all up. Chey never counted on "romance novel writer" being a list of careers that women adored. Nevertheless, Catherine insisted that she see Nikolay's latest work, as well as his previous writings.

Alexandra and Viktor engaged in an intense conversation about Quidditch strategies, clearly very interested in one another. Natalia, however, only seemed to like Chey enough to let him pay for lunch, but it was of little consequence. At least Viktor and Nikolay had gotten some backbone.

After lunch Natalia announced she was going to depart from the rest of the group, and seeing as Chey would become the fifth wheel on the cart, he elected to go it alone as well, leaving Viktor with Alexandra and Nikolay with Catherine. And so, Chey made his way down the main street.

* * *

Chey had been walking for quite a while, and had followed the road near to it's end. The road was devoid of pedestrians, and the only shops around seemed to have been closed for years. Waking up to these facts, he turned around and saw the only other person on the street.

"Pleasant day," Chey addressed the figure, "wouldn't you agree, Andrey?"

"The last time I knew what a nice day was like," he responded very darkly, "Mariya was still talking to me."

"Well that's your own fault, isn't it? Certainly not Sergey's."

"No, it's yours."

This surprised Chey? He hadn't counted on Andrey enacting a revenge upon him. On one hand, now Sergey had nothing to worry about. On the other hand, however, now Chey was in the line of fire.

"What makes you say that?"

"You show up and she leaves me. Then, just like an American, when you were done with her, you tossed her aside to your good for nothing friend."

"Where did you get the idea that I had even started with her?"

"What do you mean?" Andrey asked with far more contempt than curiosity.

"I mean that I did nothing to her. Besides, blaming me for your loss is hardly fair. It's not my fault you're such an ass."

"Watch what you say."

"Actually, I'm surprised she didn't leave you sooner."

"Shut up, you-"

"Ah, well. I guess she felt sorry for you. That seems to be the only logical explanation."

"_Incarcerous!_" Now Chey was no longer the aggressor. Andrey let loose an imprisoning charm, which Chey deflected easily due to his quicker draw, owing to the strap on his arm that held his wand.

"You got quite a temper, Sparky," Chey said in a chastising tone as he walked towards Andrey. "If you listen to only one thing I say, let it be this: Leave Sergey alone. I don't care if you attack me in the halls, or down a dark corridor, or even from behind me. Just leave Sergey and Mariya alone. If you don't, you'll wish you'd never come to school this term."

* * *

"Hey, Viktor, I want to talk to you a sec," Chey said that evening.

"What is it?"

"Over here. I don't want Sergey to know. Listen, Andrey isn't after Sergey for revenge."

"Why shouldn't Sergey hear this? This is great news!"

"I know it's wonderful, but there's still a possibility Andrey was lying."

"Wait, you talked to him?"

"Yeah. He said he didn't care about Sergey. He's blaming me."

"Well now you've got to be careful!"

"No, I'll be fine. It's Sergey I'm worried about. If he hears this, he'll stop looking over his shoulder. You understand?"

"Yes, it makes sense. But listen: I heard Andrey's father taught him some Dark Arts."

"I'll be fine. Just watch Sergey and Mariya. Anything happens to them, call me and I'll take care of Andrey. And tell this to Nikolay when you see him later."


	8. Chapter 8, Resent

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Eight

Resent

* * *

It was nearing the end of June, final exam time. Up to this point, no one in the group went anywhere alone. They had still not told Sergey about Andrey's true target. At the same time, Andrey had not made a move. They had determined that for him to do so it would have to be in a deserted corridor, and merely by steering clear of those they would be out of his sights.

Viktor and Nikolay had hit it off rather well with Catherine and Alexandra, and every weekend they got together in town. On occasion, Sergey, Mariya, Viktor, Alexandra, Nikolay and Catherine would all go out together. There was a moment of embarrassment when they all realized that Chey would be the odd number, but Chey always managed to come up with some excuse not to go.

Minerva had been keeping touch. According to her, there had been two more attacks, the headmaster was suspended, and the groundskeeper had been arrested since Chey's last visit. It seemed like quite a mess over there.

It was the morning of the last exam, and Chey awoke to Raithe landing on his shoulder with Minerva's most recent letter. There was another attack, this time a first-year girl had disappeared, one of the Weasley children. Chey read this letter on his way down to breakfast where he met the others.

"Hey Sergey," Chey called when he arrived at their table. "You know a lot about creatures, right?"

"Sure."

"What kind of creature casts a killing curse that can be altered into a petrification curse and has a tendency too kidnap little girls?"

"Um, well a basilisk would fit the first part, but I don't know anything that would fit the second, except for those silly Muggle legends about dragons. Also, I don't think a basilisk has been reported for centuries."

"So it must be a person," Chey wondered aloud.

"Why do you ask?"

"Take a look at what my aunt wrote," Chey handed Sergey the letter, who read it over and handed it back. "What do you think?"

"I think you should take those tests she's talking about."

"Shut up."

"What's the harm? At the worst you'll know how smart you are by her standards."

"Whatever. Now, about the creature?"

"It's either a basilisk or someone pretending to be one. But take those tests she's talking about."

"I refuse on basic principle. I'm not taking any test that calls itself 'The OWL.' I just can't take it seriously."

"How about you tell her that you'll take it only if you get expelled again?" Sergey's intentions were pure, and Chey knew that. He just couldn't help but think that Sergey believed in the possibility that Chey might get expelled once again, an idea that really hit close to home for Chey.

"Don't bring that up," he responded. "Just shut up and let's take that last exam."

* * *

Their last exam, Transfiguration, was Chey's favorite. They were free to leave once completing the exam, but Chey stuck around to see who was second to him. He was waiting a good twenty minutes before Viktor turned in his exam. All the remaining students still had their faces screwed up in concentration.

Chey and Viktor exchanged glances, gestured towards the door, and headed out. On their way out, Chey noticed a desk with another completed exam sitting on top of it. As they exited the door, they heard another student rise to turn in an exam.

"So what took you so long on that one?" Chey asked as they headed down the corridors towards the student lounge. "Trouble with number twenty-three?"

"Yeah, that was tough. Wait, how did you know which one?"

"I noticed you took a long time before writing down your twenty-third answer."

"What?"

"The time you spent between the twenty-second time you started writing and the twenty-third time had to be about six minutes, which can only mean you spent a long time on question twenty three. And I can only wonder why you had such trouble-"

"Okay, I get it."

"But that was an easy one, Viktor! How can anyone have problems with vanishing spells at this point?"

"I know that one was easy. I guess my mind was elsewhere."

"And your mind can only be in one of two places: the Quidditch field or with Alexandra. It was her, wasn't it?"

"Drop it."

"Hey, no shame in saying the girl of your dreams is more important than your studies. I just wonder what it says when you think of her when trying to answer a question about vanishing spells."

"When did you finish?" Viktor asked, clearly trying to divert the subject.

"Twenty minutes before you did, when you were pretending to contemplate question twenty-three."

"That fast? How do you manage that during every test?"

"Hey, I was fourth to finish for Herbology. That's something less than stellar, isn't it?"

"That's still up there, Chey. Give someone else a chance to be on top of the world."

"I did. I got expelled from my last four schools. I've left room for plenty of people to climb to the top rung of the ladder."

"And you wonder why more people don't tolerate you."

"Hey, I don't wonder. If they don't like me, I don't like them. Which brings up an interesting point. If someone really didn't like me, and really wanted to enact some sort of revenge upon me, time would be running out for them, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose it would," Viktor answered, somewhat confused as to what prompted this conversation.

"Right. So if they had a problem with me, they only have a couple of weeks to take care of it. Wouldn't they, Andrey?"

"Why do you think I'm here?" Andrey responded. He had been following them since they left the classroom. Chey figured that he must have rushed through the exam and waited on turning it in so he could follow them.

"I figure you got a problem that won't go away. At least you've left Sergey and Mariya alone."

"I despise your false feelings for your so-called friends."

"Hey, if you got a problem with me, there's no need to take it out on them. I'm right here, so deal with me. Hey Viktor, wouldn't you call Andrey's actions 'harassment?'"

"I believe I would, Chey," Viktor replied.

"_Reducto!_" Andrey cried out, leaving Chey only an instant to counter it with the Protego charm. The Reductor curse ricocheted off Chey's defense and rendered an empty classroom's door to mere splinters. With good reason, Chey was now furious.

"Using a Reductor curse on another person?! What are you-"

"_Expeliarmus!_"

Distracted, Chey could not stop this one. Chey had to make a split second decision, and determined that perhaps if he appeared unarmed, Andrey would stop. As Viktor's wand flew out of his hand, Chey's wand seemed to do likewise. Now Viktor was defenseless, and Chey could not risk casting an attack of his own for risk of exposure.

"You son of a-" Viktor began, but Chey interrupted. The best thing to do was talk sensibly right now.

"What the hell do you want from me?!"

"Shut up."

"You want me to leave? Is that it?"

"I said shut your stupid face!"

"That's it. That's all you are. You're just a stupid little kid who never heard of not getting what he wants." Chey couldn't stop agitating him. He knew keeping a civil tone was the smart thing to do, but he couldn't help himself.

"Go to Hell!!"

"Grow up, you little brat."

* * *

_This little moron has no idea what he's dealing with. Just give up, will you? You won't get Mariya back, she left you. Why can't you see that? Just go home and soak your empty head, maybe sneak some stiff vodka, and get over it._

_Damn, looks like he's just gung-ho to attack me no matter what. Put the wand down, asshole. It's not worth you getting whipped around the room like a ragdoll. There is no spell you can cast that I can't throw right back. I don't blame you for thinking I'm defenseless. That's my fault for misleading you. I don't mean to, it's just nobody ever believes the truth these days. So you won't put the wand down? Ah, well. I guess you'll just have to learn the hard way. Go ahead and attack. You won't hurt me. At my skill level, no one can._

_Wait, what did you just say? "Crucio?" No...What fool would use an Unforgivable-_

_Something is pressing me against the wall. Why is it crushing me? Son of a- ghah, that hurts like a bitch! Stop! If there is any mercy in this world the pain will stop!_

_My right arm feels numb. No, not numb. I still feel it. It feels...relaxed. Wait. The pain stopped. What a relief._

_Something's not right. Everything is so dark. I can't see a thing. It's like the hallway is completely gone. I can still see my own body. My right arm still feels odd...is something on it? It's...it's glowing...slightly...just ever so slightly._

_There are small lights all around my arm. They're like little glowing splinters, and they point in all different directions._

_Damn! Where'd Viktor go? He was just– Okay, he's on my left. He's fine. There's Andrey in front of me, the weasel._

_Huh. The air just got a little chilly. Feels relaxing. Reminds me of snowboarding in the Rockies, that cool, crisp atmosphere._

_Interesting. All the little shards of light just pointed in the same direction, like they're in formation. Wow! What a surge of power! It's like all those little shards are focusing it through my arm! With strength like this, I could do anything!_

_That Andrey is still in front of me, still has his wand out level. Oh my. He's afraid. Well, who wouldn't be when they're up against this kind of power? Let's have a look at what he's really afraid of._

_Naturally, he's afraid of me. There's really no need to pry into his mind for that information. Let's see what else there is. Fascinating! Looks like his father treated him like dirt, then left. He's so terrified of his father returning! Such a pathetic life this little wretch has led. What say we remind him of this dark secret of his?_

_Yes. Remember your terrible past! Relive it! Delve into the dark depths of your mind, and discover that which haunts you in the night! Remember every horrifying detail of it!_

_Now feel it chill your insides. Wallow in your despair. Commit every image in your head to memory and never stop seeing it! Serves you right for crossing me!_

_What a glorious feeling! I can't even feel the ground, I'm so ecstatic, not that I even care. The air is truly arctic, just the way I like it._

_Yes. This child, Andrey, will never cross Fear again, and all will learn by his example._

_I'm sitting on the ground? Leaning against the wall? How did I get down here? Ow, my head feels like it's splitting apart! Wait, my forehead is bleeding? How? Who's calling my name?_

* * *

Chey was sitting on the ground, propped up by the wall, where not five feet away that very wall was missing a section. The hallway was starting to fill up with spectators, just leaving classrooms and drawn to the commotion. A thin, white mist surrounded the area, and all the glass in the surrounding area was covered with frost. Andrey was on the ground, shivering. Viktor was kneeling next to Chey, trying to wake him back up.

Chey reached his hand up to his forehead, then pulled it away and examined the bleeding.

"I'm sorry, Chey," Viktor said, though it took a moment for Chey to understand.

"Sorry for what?" he asked, still reeling from this experience and trying to make sense of it all.

"You wouldn't–Headmaster!"

"What happened here?" Chey heard Karkaroff say. "Krum! McGonnagal! Go wait for me in my office!"

"Yes sir! Come on, Chey! Get up!"


	9. Chapter 9, Dust

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Nine

Dust

* * *

Chey and Viktor were sitting outside Karkaroff's office. Chey's forehead had stopped bleeding, but he hadn't bothered to clean up the blood, which had run down the side of his face and spilt on his collar.

"What were you thinking?" Viktor finally asked.

"I don't remember," Chey responded after a moment's silence. "Not all of it. I don't think I saw what was really happening. I might have blacked out. All I remember is someone casting the Cruciatus curse, then nothing, then I'm sitting on the floor."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, that's it. No more, no less. What happened?"

"Where should I start?"

"Uh, right after he disarmed us."

"Well, you started talking and he kept telling you to shut up. It was like you were provoking him."

"I didn't mean to."

"I didn't think you did. Well, then he cast the curse. I kind of fell to the ground; I guess I got hit by a collateral effect, because it wasn't pain, just felt like an ache. Anyway, the curse must have had an odd effect on you, because you were thrown against the wall, and you stayed there like something was pressing you against it."

"I remember that. Just pure, blinding pain. After that it's clear as mud. Keep going."

"Okay. This is going to make very little sense, because that's when it got weird. First, your right arm started to glow. But it wasn't an ambient glow. There was some kind of aural effect around your arm that kind of resembled smoke or a real slow fire. It seemed to alternate silver and black."

"The Illusionist's Aura. I assume it then enveloped my whole body?"

"Yes! How did you know?"

"It's nothing unusual for me. Go on."

"Well then there were some weird lights all around your arm, like bright glowing splinters. They shined bright white and weren't touching your arm, just floating around it. I heard a sound like breaking glass, then you sort of floated away from the wall."

"That sound must have been the curse being broken. Sometimes the dispelling of a powerful curse can translate into sound energy."

"There was another sound," Viktor continued, seemingly decided to ask questions later, "like something whipping through the air, and all the glowing lights aligned themselves parallel to your arm. Then the air got cold. Real cold. You held your hand out towards Andrey, then he started shivering."

"Was it that cold?"

"Not that kind of shivering. He was terrified. It looked kind of like the effect of the Dementors."

"You're kidding!"

"It was the same circumstances: the air get's cold, the target starts to relive his worst memories, and afterwards he just lay on the floor, whimpering and shivering. You still hadn't touched the ground since before the Cruciatus curse, and Andrey was lifted into the air. Then that aura around you gathered into a single point, shot towards the wall and blasted a big hole in it."

"What happened next?"

"I grabbed my wand and hit you with a stunner. I'm sorry, but I had to stop it before someone got seriously hurt," Chey accepted this logic and Viktor continued. "Well, then you flew across the hallway and hit your head on the wall and kind of slumped to the ground. Andrey just fell out of the air and didn't move. And those lights around your arm disappeared, then people started coming into the hall."

"That's it?"

"Yeah," Viktor reassured him. "Damn! Your wand is still back there!"

"No it isn't," Chey assured him. Viktor was, understandably, confused. "It's always been right here." Chey was not really indicating anything, just holding his right arm out. There was nothing in his hand, he wasn't pointing to any object, just holding his arm out in front of the two of them.

"Where?" Viktor asked, still not understanding.

"Right here," Chey said and his arm was surrounded by the glowing splinters once more.

"I don't...What do you mean?"

Chey decided perhaps it was time for someone to know the truth.

"My first year of school, I was, well, a troublemaker. I couldn't sit still. Always had to draw attention to myself. I was cracking jokes in class, pulling pranks on other kids. You know, kid stuff."

"What's this got to-"

"I'm getting to that. Eventually, sweet justice caught up with me and I was expelled at the end of the year. Technically, I was just barred from returning, as my academic record was closed to changes immediately following the final exam, so the worst punishment they could dish out was to prevent me from returning next year. That didn't stop me from attending other schools, though.

"Second year, I cleaned up my act. I wasn't a total bore, just less of a moron than I was previously. I tried to keep my record at my last school a secret, but two kids found out and figured they could do the worst thing possible and blame it on me. It worked. I was, as luck would have it, not expelled, but prohibited from returning once again, as it was after the final exam. Unfortunately, this school was far more stiff-necked when it came to procedure. Procedure called for wand destruction.

"Have you ever seen a wand destruction, Viktor?"

"No."

"It's really bizzare. The wand levitates in front of the executioners, then like wielding an axe, they swing their own wands down on it and it breaks clean in two."

"That's what happened?"

"That's what normally happens. Mine broke into dozens of shards. They all fell to the ground, bounced off the floor once, and sort of floated in the air. Then they glowed bright white, and raced off in my direction. My arm felt like every one of those shards had found a bit of real estate on my right arm and dug right in. It was like being stuck with a thousand needles that ground their way in."

"What happened next?"

"Well, the people in charge didn't know what to make of it, so they just kicked me out."

"That's it?"

"Yeah. When you confuse the hell out of people who think they know what's going on, all they can do is continue with procedure. Ever since then, I've never needed a physical wand. I can cast anything without twirling a piece of wood or saying a word."

"But I've seen you holding a wand! Or was that a fake?"

"Yes and no. What you saw was an illusion. After some practice I could create an illusion that interacted with the real world. That's how it was able to make a sound when it hit something like a desk or Sergey's head."

"Is this also why you've created your own spells?"

"Exactly. Ever since that happened, magic is truly like an extension of myself. Hell, I can even manipulate a spell that's already been cast."

"What else?" Viktor was truly fascinated. It was as though the events of less than an hour ago had never happened.

"Well, I can, in a sense, see magic. I can see where it's happened, what was cast, how strong it was, and how long ago."

"Can you see what's going to happen?"

"I'm not a seer. Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering if you know what' going to happen to us. Karkaroff's here."

Karkaroff did not look at the boys, just told them to follow him into his office, which they obeyed. He sat down behind his desk, never inviting the two to sit.

"The boy is being treated," he began, "and you two are going to tell me what happened."

"What's there to tell?" Chey started. "He pissed me off and I kicked his ass. That's it."

"Headmaster, that's not what happened," Viktor exclaimed. "Andrey, he-"

"Viktor, you don't have to defend me."

"You could use all the defense you can get, McGonnagal," the headmaster interrupted. "I received an interesting letter from your last school, Venice University. They say that you were expelled. That's something you neglected to include on your application."

"That wasn't an issue when I submitted it."

"It is an issue now. You are both under suspension pending an investigation into today's events."

"Andrey attacked us! That's what happened!" Viktor was almost yelling.

"Why is Viktor under suspension?" Chey asked calmly.

"He was at the scene and now he is defending you. That places some suspicion on him, and he will be on suspension along with you."

"You don't want to be doing that, Igor," Chey said.

"Why shouldn't I uphold the duties of my office?"

"Well, Heaven forbid you should have a less than pristine public image."

"I'm not sure I follow," Karkaroff said, trying to hide an air of confusion.

"Me neither," Viktor whispered.

"Igor, I'm sure you're aware of Viktor's impending stardom?" Chey asked. Karkaroff half nodded. "Think about it. Viktor is going to be a star player in a professional Quidditch team. Do you really want this school, and yourself, for that matter, to be the big bad wolf that punished poor Viktor Krum for that which he played no part?"

"What are you suggesting?" Karkaroff asked. Chey had his attention, and just about any suggestion Chey made would sound like a good one.

"Expel me."

"Chey!" Viktor cried, but Chey motioned for him to stop.

"In return for not punishing Viktor, as well as signing this letter," Chey pulled a piece of parchment out of his pocket, and indicated a line awaiting Karkaroff's signature, "you are free to expel me from Durmstrang School of Wizardry and I will be out of here by midnight."

Karkaroff seemed to ponder the possibilities, then said "You are very shrewd, Mister McGonnagal. Tell me. What do you gain by this?"

"Only your signature on that dotted line."

"What am I signing?"

"A very eloquent letter to the Headmaster of my next school. You'll tell them all about my shining qualities."

With the slightest hint of a smile, Karkaroff asked "So, you had this all planned out from the beginning?"

"Mostly," Chey responded with a smirk. Karkaroff signed the letter, and dismissed them, mentioning that he'll hold Chey to his promise to leave by midnight.

"Thanks, Chey," Viktor said upon exiting the office.

"Thank you, Viktor. Now I have a letter of recommendation to send to my next school."

"That was your plan? To get kicked out just to have a letter signed?!"

"It is now," Chey said with a hint of mischievousness. "But if it get's your fat out of the fire, that's cool too. I guess I'd better pack my stuff."

* * *

"What happened, Chey?!" Sergey shouted immediately once they met up.

"Found Andrey, he attacked us, we fought back, kicked his ass, I've been expelled."

"You were expelled for defending yourself?" Nikolay complained. "That's not fair!"

"Viktor will fill you in. I have to get my stuff packed and mail a letter. Raithe!" Obediently, the raven swooped down and Chey handed him the envelope, already addressed to it's recipient. "I'll be making a stop in England, so meet me there," he told the bird, and it flew off.

"What are you going to do about next year, Chey?" Nikolay asked when Chey returned to the scene with his things.

"I already got that sorted out," he responded, assuming Viktor had not told them about his plans. "I've already applied to my next school. Karkaroff was kind enough to sign a letter of recommendation for me."

"You'll keep in touch?" Mariya asked.

"Sure." It was already past eleven o'clock, so Chey figured now would be a good time to leave. He said his goodbyes to everyone, headed out the front door, and upon passing the apparition barrier, disappeared.

It was at this time Chey again wondered if he'd be able, or allowed, to stay anywhere for more than a year.


	10. Chapter 10, Measure of Knowledge

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Ten

Measure of Knowledge

* * *

"Hello, Aunt Em."

"Chey! What are you doing here? Has Durmstrang let out?"

"No, not yet."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Long story. Very complicated."

"Have you been expelled again?!"

"Yep."

"What happened?!"

"I can honestly say I don't know."

Minerva thought over Chey's words, and said "Chance your best guess."

"Best I can figure, some jerk cursed me, I broke it and kicked his ass."

"Expelled for merely fighting?"

"Well, I caused some damage..."

"That's enough details," she said with a sigh. "I would have figured you would have gone straight to Romania. Why have you come here?"

"I figured I might be able to help with your creature caper."

"What?"

"People being petrified...little girl gets kidnaped...any of this ringing any bells?"

"Oh, of course!" she said with a dawn of reasoning. "The monster is dead. It was killed the other night."

"What? You're kidding me, right?"

"No."

"Well what was it?"

"You won't believe this. It was a basilisk!"

"Huh. Sergey had it dead on. So now what are you going to do?"

"We've cancelled the final exams for the students and now they just wait for the train home. Now tell me what you are going to do. Have you come here to ask admittance into Hogwarts?"

"No."

"Well surely no other school anywhere would be willing to take you now."

"Actually..."

"You're joking!"

"Nope. Just got this letter from Madame Olympe Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France. I'm in."

"How on earth-"

"My application is not entirely truthful. But you didn't hear that from me."

"One of these days your methods are going to get you into far more trouble than you've ever gotten out of."

"Here we go again. Listen, Em. How about we skip to the end where I acknowledge your sage words of wisdom but decide to act on my own anyway?"

"In the interest of saving time, Chey, we will. Now please leave my office before you say something about the decor."

"Now that you mention it, Minerva..."

"Out!"

* * *

As Chey wandered the halls of Hogwarts, he could sense a lighter atmosphere than what was there during his previous visit. People actually greeted each other in the hall, talked about less pressing matters, and were even courteous towards him.

All this lightheartedness was getting on his nerves, so he decided to take off for Romania earlier than expected. As he made his way through the entrance hall towards the main doors, he noticed Raithe swoop in from one of the windows, clutching two envelopes in his feet. The first was from Beauxbatons. It held information about the upcoming term, three months off.

The second envelope was unexpected enough that Chey did a double take. It was addressed to his mother. It wasn't Christmas. Why would her family send a letter now? Again, no return adress. He opened it, and a raven charm with outstretched wings on a gold chain slid out. He opened the letter and read it.

"_Hello, Alana._

_While cleaning some things I found your necklace. I was shocked to think that you would not have it with you. You loved this necklace so very much, so we thought it best to send it to you._

_Say hello to William for us. We will see you soon._

_With love,_

_Mother and Father."_

He took another look at the necklace. It was beautiful, and at the same time seemed decades old but shined like new.

He read the letter again. They mention William, his father. At least they knew who her husband is, but they seemed oblivious to her marital state. Again, they put that hatful phrase: "With love." If they really meant it, they'd go to at least some length to discover who was getting their daughter's mail.

While contemplating these thoughts, he never heard any of the people around him.

"Magic is the clay," came a familiar voice, "and the magician is the sculpter. Magicians neither create nor emanate any magic at all, we just move it around." Yes, it was Laser-Eye Library Girl. What was her name? Something Greek?

"How long did it take you to figure that out, Miss..."

"Hermoine Granger," she finished for him. Of course, sounded like Hermes, the Greek messenger god. "And it only took me a week." She was quick, a quality that would make Hermes proud.

"Impressive. I had it in four days."

"And the wand is the tool. It focuses and amplifies the natural magic around us," she said with such confidence. "I figured that out in the same week."

"Okay, that part took me three days. We're even. I see you've shed your whiskers."

"And I've been revived from petrification."

"Never out of the clinic long, are you?"

"This year is an anomaly," she declared.

"And you still had time to comprehend the raw basics of magical theory. Bravo. Now, did you seek me out just to impress me?"

"Not in the least. Actually, I've come for the second puzzle piece you promised."

"Well, the next piece was the role of the wand, but since you've already figured that out, I do have something else for you to consider."

"Go right ahead."

"By the next time we meet, I want you to be able to describe the actual flow of magical energy when a spell is cast. Tell me what direction it goes and how it gets there."

"That's impossible! Can't I have some sort of clue?"

"Read up on fluid dynamics. It will get you far. Trust me."

Chey headed out the doors, Raithe on his shoulder, the necklace still in his hand. Then, feeling as though it were his mother's wish, he put it around his neck.

* * *

Wearing the necklace took some getting used to, but two weeks of wearing it got Chey accustomed to it.

Vipey was no doubt happy to see him, and the first thing Chey did was cook him a sirloin steak.

"Who knew just a little prepared meat is all it takes to calm this beast," Chuck said upon witnessing this. The three of them were in the open field where the more mellow dragons, Vipey included, were kept. The more aggressive ones were confined to individual cells so as not to incite the others.

"Well I certainly didn't know it for the longest time. Then one day he stole a piece of prime rib from a barbeque party and he was happier than a squirrel in an oak forest for a week."

"Did anyone see him?"

"Thank goodness, no. My luck was working overtime that day. Although they did notice that their steak was missing. I guess they figured a dog took off with it. They were half right."

"How were they half right?"

"Well sometimes Vipey is such a son of a bitch. Of course, you can't spoil him all the time, otherwise he'll expect it. I usually give it to him random times when he seems depressed."

"Why random times?"

"If you give it to him whenever he seems depressed, he'll see a pattern and act depressed all the time."

"I'd never thought of that."

"Not many people do. It's usually the psychologists that figure it out. So how's this little rascal been?"

"Not too bad. He did want to scrap with an Opaleye, but we settled that quickly."

"Good. I was kind of worried about him. He is the only Vipertooth here, and therefore the smallest, so I didn't know if he'd try to establish his worth by some demonstration of strength."

"Has that been a problem before?"

"No. In Nevada there were plenty of Peruvians, some even smaller than him, so he didn't need to establish a place in the ranks for himself."

"What about the other breeds they kept?"

"Never needed to worry about that. Aside from a handful of the larger species, the only other breed kept in Nevada are the Roccaverdens."

Chuck was stunned. Apparently the conversation was entering territory where Chuck had no prior experience. What Chuck said next confirmed the situation. "I've never heard of them."

"Clearly you've had an incomplete education," Chey remarked. "Roccaverdens are the only North American breed of dragon."

"Why haven't I heard of them?"

"Two possible reasons: One, they are very good at camouflage. They live in the Rocky Mountains, where there are a lot of trees, and they are a very dark mottled green, so they just blend in with the forest. Two, the books on dragons you've read were written by British authors who still resent the outcome of the American Revolution. Both explanations make sense to me."

"Of course they would. But why wouldn't you need to worry about them?"

"They're smaller than Vipey. But they're also very fast. Smart, too. Seriously, they can pick a lock. I've seen it."

"What else is there about them?"

"They're about a head shorter than a Vipertooth, usually hunt deer, they can't fly as fast but can really move while on the ground. They're really agile, and their reflexes are the best of all dragons."

"Sounds like quite a breed. Why aren't there any in this reservation?"

"Because they hate confinement. They're not territorial at all, they roam around whenever they wish, so you need a large area like the desert to place the massive reservation."

"But you said they live in the forest. How do you keep forest dwelling dragons in the desert?"

"And you've been around magic your whole life?"

"Oh, right," Chuck said, speaking as one who had only that moment realized the presence of a nine-hundred pound gorilla. While Chuck was noticing things, "What's that around your neck?" he asked, indicating the necklace.

"It was my mother's. Her family just sent it to me."

Detecting a sensitive topic, Chuck backed off and changed the subject. "Well, I'm going to check on that new Horntail we just recieved."

"We got a Hungarian?"

"Yeah. Her name's Agnes. You want to have a look?"

"Sure."

Agnes was large. Fifty feet long with an inversely proportional length of temper.

"You know what, Chuck?" Chey said once he saw her. "I wouldn't go in there without two Vipeys backing me up."

"That's pretty much what I said when I saw her."

"Let's take care of her tomorrow."

"Agreed."

* * *

"Hey Chey! What's this letter on your desk?"

It was some weeks later and Chuck was referring to his mail. They were in Chey's office, where he had decorated it with various posters for movies, bands, cars and American football teams, and in the spaces not covered by them there were reference guides for dragons, magical theories and dissections of complicated spells. His desk never had a clear space, as there was always a pile of papers, books, or boxes on it. Yet he could always find what he needed by means of his system: "I can find anything in here because everything is right where I left it."

"I haven't looked at my mail yet," Chey answered from across the room. "Hand it over," he said as he approached.

"Looks like one of those Ministry letters," Chuck said. He was right, it had their seal and everything. "Wait," he said and pulled his hand back as Chey made to take the letter. "You swore you wouldn't."

"Shut up and give me the letter Chuck."

"You said 'Not a snowball's chance in Hell will I take any test called the OWL.' That's what you said, and look what we have here."

"Which means either I'm a liar or a snowball takes a long time to melt. Give me the damn letter."

"Oh, how the mighty ego has fallen."

"You want to keep all ten fingers, Chuck?" With that, Chey had his letter. After glancing at it he tossed it on the table. It had hardly rested there half a second before Chuck picked it up.

"Chey, if these were my scores I'd be shouting it from every mountaintop."

"Whatever."

"Every score here is either an 'Outstanding' or 'Exceeds Expectations.' When did you take them?"

"The examination official ambushed me as I left Hogwarts," Chey said, then muttered something about unfair tactics.

"Well you're aunt will be pleased."

"That her plan worked? Oh yes, she'll be very pleased to know I was forced to take the stupid test."

"Now she knows how smart you really are!"

"Shouldn't she already know?"

"Sure, but now she knows how to compare you to other people who have taken the same test!"

"Are you going to be like this all day?"

"I get your point. But seriously, send this to your aunt. She could use a reason to be proud of you following your fifth expulsion."

"How would you like to have nine fingers?"

* * *

Author's Note

Show of hands: how many of you thought he'd be attending Hogwarts for his sixth year? Anyone? Oh, that's totally what you were thinking, you liars!

Right about here, at the tenth chapter, I suppose it's only proper to say something along the lines of how I had no idea it would go this long. That would be a lie, because I was going to keep going regardless of what you readers thought about it. Dang, now I've estranged my audience. Ah well.

By the way, Roccaverdens are my own invention. Hope that clears up the confusion. At some point I'll have an image of a Roccaverden for you all to see. Actually, I hope to have some pictures of Chey and Vipey as well. We'll see what happens. It's up to my sister. She's my visual designer.


	11. Chapter 11, Dramatics

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Eleven

Dramatics

* * *

It was a few days after Chey received his OWL results, and Chey woke up to a newspaper in his face.

"He's escaped, Chey!" he heard someone shout in his hear.

"Chuck," he said, "either give me a minute to make the transition from sleep to wake or tell me what I'm supposed to be looking at."

"Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban!"

"He made it?"

"What?"

"He finally made it? It's about time!" Chey was fully awake now. "What took him so long?"

"What are you talking about, Chey?"

"Oh, I forgot. You're British."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, no self respecting American ever thought Black was guilty."

"WHAT?!"

"Innocent until proven guilty. Black never had a trial."

"He what?" Chuck asked, far calmer than before.

"Black never got a trial. Crotchety Crouch was so anxious to throw people in jail he just started handing out guilty verdicts without the hassle of formalities."

"But he was at the crime scene!"

"And we'll never hear his side of the story now, will we?"

"You make a good point, Chey, but you can't deny he had motive."

"That he allegedly worked for the enemy? Again, we'll never hear him explain it."

The two of them never could come to terms, so they left it at that. Chey thought it wise not to mention Black's possible escape strategies, in case Chuck leaked them to British Ministry officials.

* * *

The end of August had come once again, as did the reminders of the upcoming school year from Beauxbatons. Chey brushed up on his French, meaning he cast an elaborate translating spell of his own invention, and packed the necessary things. He knew one thing: he would never be content with the periwinkle-blue uniform. He almost missed the Durmstrang furs. Even the Hogwarts plain, boring black robes seemed enticing. He had to admit the material was very nice. It was a fine silk, and Chey determined that Beauxbatons was definitely attended by an upper class sort of student body, and when he saw the admission fee there was no question.

"Maybe they'll let me make some color changes?" he said before leaving. "What do you think, Chuck?"

"I think you're crazy for wearing that," he replied. "How are you getting there?"

"They never say anything about pre-made travel arrangements. All they said was the location, so I guess it's a sort of 'get there yourself' affair."

"So what are you going to do?"

"You know what? Since they seem obsessed with style, I'm gonna show off."

"I'm afraid to ask what you mean-"

"Can I borrow an Opaleye?"

And so Chey did indeed arrive at Beauxbatons riding on the back of an Antipodean Opaleye. Needless to say he did cause quite a scare when people saw a dragon silhouetted against the horizon, and the panic continued, albeit subdued, even when they realized the dragon made no aggressive advances.

It was quite a sight that reminded Chey of day one at an American college university, where the entire family comes to bid farewell to their student. Everywhere he looked as he saw students in the uniform hugging family members and waving their goodbyes as they entered the tall oak double doors. The castle seemed considerably more well-maintained than Durmstrang's castle. That could have been due to two factors. First, the setting sun hit the front of the castle full on, and second was the outer walls were a bright white, which was accentuated by the setting sun.

It looked as though it had been renovated in the last hundred years or so, as it had a slightly Victorian appearance. The roof had a hue very similar to the color of the uniforms, and Chey figured a student could hide very effectively by simply sitting up there.

Chey was right about one thing: the girls in France were something to look at. If Chey could do nothing else, it was make a correct assumption.

As he unloaded his things from the dragon's back, he looked around for a faculty member who may be able to assist him in his introduction to the school, but everyone seemed too distracted by the dragon to notice him or they were busy helping first year students. He thought it best to seek out Madame Maxime. He had heard from one of his coworkers who had attended Beauxbatons that she was a rather large woman, and Chey thought he had understood. However, upon seeing her, her description made perfect sense.

She towered over everyone else, and was slightly over-proportionally wide. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a single knob at the base of her neck, while it's color matched perfectly with her black dress. Apparently she hoped that black clothes would look slimming, but the color sure had a fight on it's hands, as her size was more than a match. Chey was reminded of the inebriated caroler he saw at Hogwarts last Christmas, and suspected that the two of them may be half-giant. Stranger things had happened before, so this possibility was not so far fetched.

He was about to attract her attention, when he heard a small voice beside him.

"Are you, sir, Monsieur McGonnagal, sir?"

He looked in the direction of the voice, but saw nothing. He then looked three-hundred and sixty degrees around himself, looking for the source of those words, then looked near his feet. What he saw was something he had not seen since leaving the United States: a house elf.

"Are you, sir, Monsieur McGonnagal, sir?" the little creature repeated. She wore nothing but a sash with the Beauxbatons coat of arms, and her large ears drooped as she looked up at him.

"Yes, I am," he answered the elf. She made a slight squeal of delight, and began picking up his belongings. "What are you doing?" he asked, a perfectly legitimate question to ask when someone begins taking one's things.

"I is been tasked with assisting you, sir."

"First, I do speak fluent French, so there is no need to continue in English."

"Yes, sir," the elf said, and the conversation carried on in French.

"Second, if you want to assist me, tell me where I can leave Mayla, here."

"Who, sir?"

"Mayla," he said, patting the Opaleye on the back.

"The..the dragon, sir?"

"Yes. She's staying here while I attend," he said, as though people did this everyday. He enjoyed using this tone when speaking to people about such unusual practices.

The elf stuttered, then finally said "I is not who to ask, sir."

"Then would you be so kind to introduce me to the one to ask?"

"Right away sir!" and the elf scampered off, in search of the appropriate person.

Chey continued removing his things from Mayla's back and unhitching the harness he had specially made for her. It wasn't long before he was approached by another student.

"A very dramatic entrance," she said. Chey turned and saw a rather stunning young woman. Her sheet of silver hair fell to her waist, and her deep blue eyes were fixated on the dragon. "How did you ever manage it?"

"It helps that Mayla here was raised in captivity." She seemed surprised by his casualness, and Chey immediately knew why. There was not a doubt in his mind that she was the child of a veela. Not directly, but perhaps grandchild of a veela, like his mother was. "You wouldn't happen to know where she could stay all year, would you?" he asked.

"No, but they may let you keep it-"

"Her," he corrected the girl.

"...her," she continued, "with the horses."

"You keep horses here?"

"Winged horses, yes."

"The larger white breed?"

"Of course."

"Sounds viable, but I think I'll wait for approval from your groundskeeper."

It was at that moment that the woman Chey determined was Madame Maxime had approached, followed by the house elf from earlier at her heels.

"Chiffon tells me your dragon requires a place to stay," she said. Chey could only assume Chiffon was the house elf.

"Chiffon would be correct," he answered. "Mayla here will be staying all year."

"I'm not sure it is a wise decision."

"If you are worried about the danger," Chey started to explain, "then your concerns are misplaced. Mayla here is tame as any creature you will ever come across, and should anyone incite her, I can calm her down in two seconds. All I ask is that student access to her be limited."

Seemingly convinced, Maxime allowed it, saying, "Chiffon, show Monsieur McGonnagal to the stables and help him prepare a place for his, er, pet."

"This way, please, sir," said the little creature, as she led him in the direction of what Chey supposed was where they kept the horses, and Mayla followed him obediently. She was a relatively old dragon, and with that age came a command of respect from other creatures. Chey chose Mayla for that reason. A younger dragon would have felt the need to fight for respect, and they couldn't have that near a school. And even if that younger dragon was a calm one, other creatures would still want to fight for superiority. None of these things would happen with an older dragon.

The veela girl wasn't kidding. The horses they kept could very well have supported Madame Maxime, they were so large.

Fortunately Mayla did not react too strongly towards the horses, and the horses allowed her in. There was an empty stall towards the back, and they led her into it.

"What do you feed them?" he asked the elf.

"Single-malt whiskey," came a reply, though not from the house elf. It came from the same girl he spoke to earlier. She had apparently followed them out of curiosity. Chey immediately noticed a smugness in her.

"Who knew," he replied.

"What do you feed your's?"

"Sheep, usually." She seemed stunned.

"Live sheep?" she said quitely.

"Only on special occasions. Though they will eat deer, cattle, just about anything that size. However, Mayla, here, hasn't had the energy for a real chase lately."

"Will your dragon require anything else, sir?" said Chiffon once Mayla was settled.

"There will be a shipment of raw meats arriving every two days. Split them up evenly into six meals and give her three of them per day, morning, noon and evening."

"How is it to be prepared?" inquired the elf.

"There will be no need," Chey answered. "Raw will be fine."

"Very good, sir. Is I to take your things, now?"

"Yes, thank you. Can you manage them all?"

"I is having no difficulty, sir," Chiffon said as she heaved his belongings effortlessly onto her back and scampered off towards the castle as though she were carrying nothing at all.

"Raw meat?" the girl, who was still there, had said in a somewhat frightened tone once the elf had left.

"She prefers the taste of raw steak to that of cooked. She can't have the thrill of the chase so she might as well have the fresh taste of the reward."

"And you're certain there will be no conflicts?"

"Mayla has always been calm. Never really got into any fights at all. We could always count on her to break them up, though." He seemed to have her attention, so he figured now was as good a time as any to ask "Do you know where I can get a map of the castle?"

She seemed startled. He supposed no one had ever asked that before. "Um, you may want to ask Madame Maxime."

* * *

Author's note.

All are free to speculate who this girl is and how she and Chey will interact in the coming chapters.

I appreciate the praise you have all given me thus far, but if I'm doing something wrong, let me know as well. Bear in mind, however, that if your suggestion involves changing the story, I'll probably disregard it entirely. This has taken two years to formulate in my head, and I'm not about to disregard it on a whim.

I've paused from writing for a moment (working on Chapter Eighteen) to read the seventh book and figure Chey's role in it. I had to stop because events in the books as early as the third could have an impact on what I want Chey to do. I should have something solid brewing in my skull sometime in the next two weeks. In the interest of allowing everyone a spoiler-free reading of the book themselves, please don't blurt out suggestions for the seventh book's timeline in the review section. Send me a private message instead. Although, again, the possibility of my using them is slim, as I'm not looking for suggestions.

Someday soon, I hope to have chapter art to show, just as soon as Lunan gets to it. Lunan has a tendency to procrastinate, who is now entertaining ideas of making a chibi Chey doll. As a result, while Lunan is shopping for materials to make one, I'm still waiting on that chapter art. The chapter art, once finished, will be posted on my website in the Spirit of Fear section.

Speaking of Spirit of Fear, anyone have an idea why I chose the title? It was for a deliberate reason, and I wonder what you guys are thinking. Just so you know, I'll neither affirm, nor deny any predictions.


	12. Chapter 12, A Day

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twelve

A Day

* * *

Chey never did get a map. This was the one consistent thing about every school he attended: no one ever had a map.

The powder blue theme continued throughout the interior of the castle. Everywhere he went it seemed like daylight. From the hallways to the classrooms, walls were white and furnishings light blue. Even the dormitories were those same colors. Chey sent word to Chuck to mail him some of his posters.

The uniforms were tighter around the sleeves than those of his previous schools, so he couldn't pretend to keep his wand strapped to his arm like in the past. He had come to the decision to fashion a holster to keep it at his right hip, much like a gunslinger of the Old West. If fact, that was his inspiration.

It was day one of the term, and Chey woke up staring at that horribly cheerful color, and could only hope his posters would come soon. Around him there were other boys stirring awake and getting ready for the day, eventually heading down to breakfast.

On his way down he passed other student engaged in conversation with one another about what they did over the summer and what the new year would be like. When he arrived at the dining hall, he saw about five students huddled over a single spot on the table.

"Oh, I hope they catch him!" said one girl as he passed. Chey looked and saw it was the same veela girl from before. He noticed that it was a newspaper they were examining, and on the front page was a gaunt, sickly face with filthy black hair. "What a horrible man, that Sirius Black!"

"I agree, Fleur," said a girl next to her. "That man deserves to be caught!"

Chey could be silent no longer. "Well I hope he gets away."

He had now all their attention. Their expressions ranged from shock to contempt.

"How can you say something like that?" asked the veela girl referred to as Fleur. She seemed the most disgusted by his words. "How can you defend that evil man?"

"Easily," he replied. "I don't think he's evil."

"But everyone knows he is!" Her arguments were becoming desperate.

"Everyone thinks they know, just like everyone thinks they're better than what they really are. In reality, we'll never really know."

"But he killed people!" she nearly shouted, now standing. By now the whole dining hall was fixated on their argument.

"And we'll never hear the truth."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

"They never let him testify, which can only mean the truth is far worse than the story we've been told. Didn't you ever consider that?" They were silent, clearly our of words. "I didn't think so," Chey said as he picked up a handful of croissants and left the hall. "Pompous asses," he muttered while walking down the hall.

* * *

Anyone who witnessed the scene exhibited an animosity towards Chey. When he passed them in the halls, they shot him looks that could cripple an elephant. He thought it best not to incite anything for a while, just wait for their tempers to cool. He only hoped they would do the same. His hopes were all but dashed when he arrived at his first class of the day, Defensive Magic. If there was anywhere for them to try something, this was the place to do it.

The room was half full when he entered, and when they noticed him a hush fell over the crowd. Clearly, everyone in that room was aware of the events that transpired earlier that morning. He wisely chose a seat to the far right side of the room, near a cabinet filled with bottles he presumed contained potions that countered a wide array of spell effects. He took no notice of the students who entered after him, allowing them to talk behind his back as they wished.

At nine o'clock on the dot, the teacher entered from the door in the back. He was rather lanky, and Chey could have easily mistaken his mannerisms for that of a fencing instructor.

"Welcome, sixth years!" Chey had seen this sort of annoying enthusiasm before. It reminded him strongly of that Lockhart character. "For you," he said indicating Chey, "who do not know me, I am Professor DuFendere, and this is Defensive Magic. I would like to personally welcome our new transfer student, Chey McGonnagal."

"No need," Chey replied softly. He didn't require any more attention.

"Nonsense! Everyone, let's welcome him to Beauxbatons!" He began clapping ecstatically, never noticing that no one else was following his lead. "Please, Monsieur McGonnagal, tell us about yourself!"

With a click of his tongue indicating his frustration, he began, but DuFendere insisted that he make a presentation out of it in front of the class. "Well, I've been to five other schools, one in Italy, one in Russia, and three in the United States."

"What were they?" asked the hyperactive DuFendere.

"In order, Washington Magical Academy, Miami University of Magic, Colorado School of Sorcery, Venice University of Magic, and Durmstrang Institute of Wizardry." There was a murmur among the students as he mentioned the last one. It was apparent that Beauxbatons and Durmstrang had a bit of a rivalry, and Chey could not help but think it was a good thing he had not mentioned Beauxbatons to his friends in Russia.

"So you're from America?" said a boy in the front row with a hint of contempt in his voice.

"Sure as hell proud of it," was the response Chey gave.

"Are you any good?" said a dark-haired girl in the back.

"Came in top of my class wherever I went, if that answers your question."

"Professor," piped up the veela girl. She sat right in the middle of the classroom, the center of attention. It was getting annoying running into her all the time.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Delacour?" DuFendere replied.

'_Fleur Delacour?' _Chey thought. _'Flower of the court?' Odd name. Then again the school is 'Beautiful Wands.'_

"Perhaps we should measure the value of these schools he has attended," she proposed. No one in the room seemed to understand but her.

"What do you mean?" the professor asked, voicing the collective thoughts of the room.

"Why don't we compare the best student of those schools," she said indicating Chey, "against the best of Beauxbatons?"

Chey saw through the thin veil for what it was: the girl merely wanted to discredit his opinion. It was a cheap tactic to get an approved duel with him, and Chey knew that it would never work.

"Yes, yes! A wonderful idea!"

"What?" Chey said as he swivelled his head to see the teacher bouncing on his heels. Clearly this man was a romantic, aware only of the glories that come with the fight, and blatantly ignorant of the harsh realities.

"Come right on up, Mademoiselle," he invited the veela girl up in front of the class. When she came face to face with him, there was a tense moment as they stared each other down.

"It's a little cramped to have a duel in here," he said. Now Chey wanted to prove himself. He knew it wasn't the best of solutions, but it was the only way to make them leave him alone.

"Yes, yes! Of course!" DuFendere said excitedly. "Everyone, let's go into the practice hall," he called while eagerly leading them to a door on the left side of the classroom, through which there was an arena-like room with plenty of space.

The two of them stood there like statues, Chey slightly taller than her, while the rest of the class filed into the room around them. Finally, they followed behind the rest of the crowd, the girl walking ahead of Chey, clearly trying to show off her hair. The crowd had gathered near the door, and the two of them continued past into the open area.

"This will be a friendly duel," DuFendere announced. "There will be no intent to harm your opponent, simply disarm or stun. Naturally, the Unforgivables are not allowed."

"Are you prepared?" she asked while pulling her wand out of her uniform gracefully. It was almost ten inches, made of rosewood, but Chey could not determine from this distance what it's core was. All he could tell was that it seemed like a rather temperamental wand. The way she held it showed some degree of style, much like the rest of the school.

To prove that he was not without a style of his own, he pulled his own wand, albeit an illusion, from it's resting place at his hip and twirled it around his finger a few times like a handgun. It was a pointless display that still left the spectators in awe.

"Well, to put it one way," he responded, "Yippie-kay-yay."

"Typical American," she said.

"Cliche snob," he answered.

"Let's make it interesting!" said DuFendere, a mistake to say.

Neither one of them ever said a single spell; they both cast nonverbal spells the entire time. She cast a knockback jinx, and he cast a summoning charm on the pile of cushions behind her. He performed an involuntary backflip, and she leaped and rolled to the side to avoid the flurry of pillows. Chey regained his footing and cast a banishing charm on the same cushions, hurtling them towards his opponent, who was recovering from her recent acrobatics. Seeing the incoming onslaught, she countered it with a wide stunning spell, sending the pillows scattering in all directions. The spell continued on its path towards Chey, who touched his wand to the floor, and inches in front of it, a stone wall rose up and abruptly shattered when the powerful stunner impacted it.

Behind the crumbling wall, Chey sent forth a swarm of conjured ravens, which surrounded the girl, disorienting her. She found her bearings, and sent a stream of water at Chey, who stopped her attack with a flash-freezing charm of his own design. The effort of freezing such a large quantity of water broke his concentration on the birds and they vanished into thin air.

The now frozen stream of water crashed to the ground, shattering into a million pieces, causing the spectating crowd to jump back to avoid the sharp ice. Now the floor was an entirely an area of dangerous footing, and both combatants immediately cast sticking charms to their shoes, just to keep their feet on the ground.

Without missing a beat, they continued their duel, both casting stunners which collided in midair, sending harmless sparks around the room. Chey decided to wait for the cloud to clear before shooting random spells. Fleur, however, decided differently, and sent three spells through the confusion in rapid succession. The spells dispersed the cloud and streaked towards Chey.

Chey deflected the first one with a swing of his hand, as though swatting a particularly annoying insect. The spell flew away from him and impacted the ground, kicking up pieces of the floor that scattered and mixed with the ice. The second spell was diverted away from Chey likewise, hitting the wall just over the heads of the other students. Chey caught the third spell on the tip of his wand. The force of stopping such a strong spell, a testament to the girl's talent, forced Chey's arm back behind his shoulder. This gave him plenty of room to wind up and pitch it back, amplifying the spell in the process.

The renewed and redirected spell sped towards the surprised Fleur, who had clearly never seen such a sight. Closer and closer it came towards her, and she shut her eyes, bracing for it to hit her.

When she opened her eyes the spell was floating in midair, a sparkling concentration of yellow sparks, inches from her face. Chey had stopped it before it hit her, figuring that he had already won the duel and there was no need to knock her out.

He walked towards her, and when he was close enough he scattered the spell with his illusion of a wand so that it became a harmless cloud of sparks that faded quickly away.

"I do believe you've been beaten," he said to her quietly.

"Bravo! Bravo!" came the voice of DuFendere as he clapped excitedly. He was alone in his celebration, however, as the students seemed to be trying to comprehend just how it was possible for their top classmate to be beaten by this uncouth transfer student. "That was a wonderful demonstration of nonverbal spell techniques! Thank you so much for introducing us to the primary focus of this year's teachings!"

"You haven't started nonverbals yet?" Chey asked the girl, who had no answer for him. He assumed she had pursued learning the skills voluntarily.

"Another topic for this year," continued the perky professor, "will be expecting the unexpected in a duel." The sound of a bell rang through the castle, signifying the end of classes. "Ah, what a shame that's all for today. Come along, everyone! Back into the classroom to gather your things."

He led the students into the other room. Chey and Fleur did not immediately follow. When Chey finally did turn to leave, after the last of the crowd had gone through the door, he left her standing as she was when she had opened her eyes and found the suspended spell immediately in front of her.

When she finally noticed he was no longer near her, Chey was halfway to the door. Out of desperation to win she cast yet another spell while his back was turned. Chey, still very aware of his surroundings, sensed the incoming attack, and in one motion whipped around, swung his wand and hit the spell, sending it straight towards a large chunk of ice on the floor that shattered on the spell's impact.

"You can never let anything go, can you?" he asked her, though he was sure she hadn't heard him.

"How do you do that?" she asked.

"Do what?" he replied. What could she be talking about? How to amplify spells? Deflect them? Raise a stone wall out of the ground?" She didn't seem able to voice into words what she wanted to know, so Chey decided not to waste time waiting for her to figure it out.

When he entered the classroom he found many people still waiting for Fleur to come out. He gathered his own things without waiting for anyone else, and continued to his next class.


	13. Chapter 13, Recoil

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

Recoil

* * *

Chey and Fluer's duel had a far more negative impact on public opinion of Chey than his words during breakfast. Now not only did he, in their eyes, defend criminals, he was now the annoying transfer student who had to show off and steal the top student position. The male students disliked him more, as they believed he had in some way attacked her (which was the point of dueling) and gotten the notion that achieving revenge for her would win her attention. As such, Chey had to continually dodge hexes in the halls.

The girls had a neutral opinion of him. On one hand, they were still upset about his opinion of Sirius Black. However, they had an animosity towards Fleur, after all the attention the boys paid to her, leaving little for them. After it was established that Chey and Fleur were at ends with each other, it cancelled out what he said that morning, though not enough for any of them to block a jinx for him.

So much had happened, and it was still only the end of the first day. Chey decided to visit Mayla, both to check on her and to hide from the rapid fire attacks. When he arrived, Chiffon was already there, pouring the whiskey for the horses. Upon his entrance, she became startled.

"I is sorry, sir! I shall leave."

"Why?" he asked. The elf looked as though no one had asked this before.

"S...so as not to be bothering you, sir."

"It's okay. I don't mind. In fact, it's be nice to be within ten yards of someone who doesn't want to bite my head off."

"I's heard what happened, sir."

"Word travels fast around here."

"I is very sorry about what you is going through, sir."

"Nah, it's my own fault. I probably should have never taken that girl's challenge."

"Mademoiselle Delacour is not liking to be second," Chiffon said. Chey realized something about what the elf had said. Perhaps she could tell him a little more about students here.

"Why not?" he asked as he walked towards Mayla, who was already eating her dinner of raw lamb.

The elf hesitated slightly, trying to summon the answer in her mind. When she couldn't find one, she said "I is not knowing, sir. Only she is liking the respect of the top student position, sir."

"And what exactly does that entail?"

"All the teachers is giving her special responsibilities, sir."

"Such as?" Chey had been stroking Mayla on the head now that she had finished her dinner.

"She is being able to grade papers, assign detentions to younger students who is out late..."

"I see." This was just the type of grade-A student Chey had worked so hard all those years to avoid becoming. It was his opinion that any student who voluntarily took on such tasks couldn't have much of a life of their own, and Chey certainly enjoyed his life. Now Chey was tired of talking about the person who had been giving him such grief, so he decided to change the subject. "How do you like working here?"

"I's likes it very much, sir!"

"Good. I was worried that Europeans would not treat elves in the humane ways of the United States."

"What ways would they is mistreating us in your eyes, sir?"

"Well, I was most worried they wouldn't pay you."

Chiffon was shocked, though Chey could not understand why. "Why is would they pay, sir?"

"Why wouldn't they? You're providing a service, aren't you? I would think that warrants some kind of payment."

"House elfs is not supposed to be paid!" she cried. Chey had obviously struck a nerve.

"What do you mean? They're paid in America."

Little Chiffon gasped, as though he had summoned a terrible curse upon the world. "House elfs is paid in America?" she said softly.

"Yeah, ever since 1868. What's wrong with that?"

"There is everything wrong!" she nearly shouted, then continued saying it as she left the stable. Chey was about to mention her unfinished job of tending the horses, but a quick look showed that she had already completed the task, and all twelve horses were satisfied.

"Maybe coming here wasn't such a good idea, Mayla," he said, patting the dragon on the back. "These French are crazy."

* * *

The following days showed an improvement in Chey's situation. First, Chuck had finally sent over some of Chey's posters from his office, and from then on he woke up every morning looking at the image of a 1969 Dodge Charger that he had pinned to the ceiling.

Shortly after that, the favor Chey called in had finally come through. Chey had used the reputation of the McGonagall family to nab himself a personalized Firebolt, the latest racing broom model, and it had finally arrived. As such, Chey could not resist taking the beautiful Saturday afternoon to test it out.

Chey had paid a fair amount, an additional twenty percent, for such a special broom. While the standard Firebolt was stained in dark burgundy with gold etched serial numbers, Chey had his painted black from handle to twigs, with real platinum for the serial numbers and his full name in script on the handle, as well as had the manufacturer install a removable anti-wind resistance charm.

Flying in front of the school would have been flaunting, the last thing he wanted to do, so he headed out back. Behind the school there was virtually no place to walk. Just as the building's east side ended, there was a sharp drop off. At the bottom of this cliff was a lake, and there were bare rocks all the way down. Ignoring these features granted one a beautiful view of the lake, which ended at the base of a mountain, and this provided a perfect, wind-free flying area, and sunrises that came up behind the mountain were always beautiful.

He arrived at the top-most balcony that faced the lake, and found he was alone. There was no one behind the school at all, on the lake or above, meaning there would be no one in his way. He decided to start his first ride on his new broom off with a bang. He leapt off the edge of the balcony, his Firebolt in hand, and mounted it in midair.

The speed difference between this and his Nimbus was astounding. In four seconds he accelerated to what had to be eighty miles per hour. He shot over the lake with inches of clearance, the slipstream disturbing the surface of the water. He sped towards the distant mountain, and reached it in no time. He then raced up the hillside, swerving around trees and boulders expertly, barely scratching the surface of what the broom could accomplish.

When he eventually cleared the summit, he continued into the sky. The cold air chilled his hands, numbing them. He had finally had enough high altitude flying, and made a ninety-degree turn straight down as hard as the broom could handle, and as a result, nearly unseated himself. He sped toward the ground at nearly a hundred and fifty miles per hour. Breaking through the clouds, he now saw the lake clearly in front of him.

A slight change to his flightpath sent him towards the lake's edge, and he pulled back slightly so that the broom handle followed the shoreline. He continued this, and as a result he began a descending spiral, continuing to apply light back pressure to the broom to make the path ever more level to the ground. When he was feet from the ground he was already flying level, still following the shore at full speed.

As he continued on his course, he looked out towards the center of the lake, where someone was hovering on a broom some fifty feet above the surface. He thought he was alone out there. Perhaps he'd had his head in the clouds longer than he perceived. Thinking that no one at this school had seen any speed like he was achieving, he decided to surprise them.

He came up from behind the flyer with a speed he himself couldn't believe, and could only imagine the look of surprise on their face as he whipped by on their right side with less than a foot to spare. Laughing, he continued speeding away from the now frazzled broom rider, rolling to the left and descending to fly low to the lake where he held his fingers to the water's smooth surface, causing triggering a spectacular spray as he flew over it. He then continued on a course that took him behind the mountain, and landed on the summit, where he observed the aftermath of his mischievous prank.

He took a closer look at the rider he startled, and was startled himself. It was none other than Fleur Delacour.

"What's she doing out here?" he said to no one. He got back on his Firebolt and sped towards her.

When he arrived she was still recovering from her experience.

"Heh heh...you seem a little startled!"

"You!" she said once she determined where his voice was coming from. Then she regained her composure. "Cannot resist showing off?"

"Well neither can you, apparently. I saw how flashy your spell casting was."

"You speak nonsense."

"I'll bet you can't even perform a simple Lumos without telling it to the world."

"And you can't go anywhere without everyone seeing you," she shot back. Chey hated that she was right about that, and couldn't respond. When she noticed that he had no words to say, she changed the conversation to a topic of her own choosing. "How do you cast such intricate spells so quickly?"

"If your personal definition of the word 'intricate,'" he was quick to reply, "starts with a levitation charm, then we can stop talking right now."

"I'm talking about the wall that blocked my spell."

"Essentially a raw form of transfiguration. If you can't figure that out, maybe the title of 'top of the class' isn't for you to hold."

"What about the ravens?" she said, upholding the contempt in her voice.

"A slight alteration to the Avis charm."

"Freezing the water? A freezing charm is not so simple it can be cast off the cuff like that."

"I found the standard freezing charm insufficient, both in time to cast and it's potency. I created my own."

She was quiet for a moment, then, without shouting, said "How did you deflect and return my spells as though they were solid objects I had thrown at you?"

With an equally long pause, he said just as calmly "I'll make you a deal. Figure that out on your own, and I'll overlook all the spiteful comments and actions you have taken against me." With that, he rolled to his right and raced towards the topmost balcony of the school's east wall.

Knowing that no one could ever figure out how he could manipulate spells already cast without a full understanding of magical theory, he shouldered his broom and went inside. As he walked through the halls, he received a combination of death stares and gawkings at his new, unusually designed broom.

* * *

Author's note

Chey's got a nice broom, eh? Platinum...oooohhh.

Just a little side story. Not even a side story. This was more of a writing exercise. I'm trying to get better at writing action. Please be so kind as to let me know how I did. Could you follow it okay, or did anyone need to read it twice? I need to know, because this story will have plenty of action further on.

If anyone's unhappy with how certain characters are portrayed, take heart as changes are within the realm of possibilities.

I appreciate everyone's valuable input so far, and hope you'll continue your feedback.

A request: If anyone can find the the first name of Fleur's father, will that person please send me a private message? I thank you in advance.


	14. Chapter 14, Competition

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

Competition

* * *

Chey's startling of Fleur on the day of his broom's arrival set off a fury in her that Hell shall never know.

She tried anything she could to better him. From scoring higher on a test or completing that test quicker, all the way to casting a charm with more finesse.

Chey was no help to the situation at all. His argumentative self and urge to always be the one with the right answer drove him to compete against her, and this clashed greatly with her competitive and attention-starved personality.

Their unending contest for recognition reached a fever pitch at the end of October during a Transfiguration class.

"Class, we will be expanding on nonverbal self-transfiguration techniques," the professor explained. "Last week you all, some with more difficulty than others, successfully changed the color of your eyebrows. Today I want you all to change your hair."

Every student stood in front of a mirror, and fate would have Chey and Fleur standing next to each other. Chey, already very confident he could accomplish the task, took a moment to watch the other students blunder their way around the spell. Some had accomplished to set themselves on fire, and one had even changed to zebra stripes, though unintentionally and not according to the assignment.

Thanks to his decision to wait a moment, Fleur had finished the assignment, changing her hair to a silky light brown, and now was now enjoying the high praise coming from the instructor. She glanced over at Chey, looking very smug indeed, confident that nothing he could do would bother her now. She was right. As far as casting the spell, he could not do better than her. He would have to go one step further.

Fleur turned away to tell her friend how easy the spell really is, and by the time she turned back, Chey was no longer there. In his place in front of the mirror was a fox, though it was no ordinary fox. Completely covered in silver hairs that ended in black tips and possessing Chey's silver colored eyes, the fox yipped to attract everyone's attention.

Immediately the class had diverted themselves from Fleur's accomplishment to Chey's.

"Monsieur McGonagall!" the professor cried.

Fearing widespread panic, Chey turned back to his usual self.

"Are you an animagus, Chey?" one of the students asked.

"Yeah." Chey's response caused them all to forget Fleur's once again silver blonde hair, and she bristled with anger about it.

* * *

After class, Chey, reveling in his victory in the war of attention, went to the east balcony at the rear of the school to enjoy the lake view and cool, damp October weather, as was typical for the climate of Southern France. Over the years, the moist atmosphere had eroded the balcony wall, and Chey wondered if it should give way any day to some absentminded person who might lean a bit too hard on it.

As he inhaled deeply the crisp air and contemplated summoning his broom to take a spin, Fleur approached him from behind.

"Let's get it out in the open," she said. "I hate you."

"And why is that?" he asked, turning around and leaning gingerly on the well worn balcony wall. "Why is it that I, a total stranger, annoy you to the brink of rage?"

"You don't leave me alone."

"And how would you prefer I leave you be?"

"Stop trying to prove you're some kind of god-figure!"

"Is that what this is about?" he wondered aloud. "You being upstaged? You're even shallower than I thought."

"If anyone is shallow, it's you! All you ever do is try to prove everyone wrong."

"Well forgive me for having a difference in opinion. You're not much better, flaunting whatever excuse for skill you might have. I swear, you are the definition of narcissism!"

"You want narcissism?" she yelled, moving closer. "Fine! 'Look! I'm an animagus! I have a fancy broom! I use a dragon as my personal transport!'"

"That argument would work so much better if you weren't guilty of that which you accuse others," he said, laughing. The two of them were now nearly nose to nose, with about three inches of height difference between them, Chey being the taller. "Look at yourself. You flaunt your veela blood. Every day you're escorted everywhere by one of your male classmates that you've brainwashed to do your bidding. I'm surprised this week's stooge isn't here right now."

"Jacques has offered of his own conviction to accompany me, something you'll never have the chivalry to even dare."

"Okay, here's your chivalry: go right ahead, Mademoiselle, and feel free to perpetuate the stereotype you so greatly detest. As a matter of fact, I'll bet that's how you got your grades you claim to have earned!"

"How dare you accuse me of such deplorable behavior!"

"Yeah, I can see it now: 'Please, Professor, don't grade me too harshly.'"

"I earn every grade I receive! Though I can't say the same for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How do I know that a little bit extra of thatMcGonagall money isn't making it into the teacher's pockets?"

"You're suggesting I'm guilty of bribery? Now you're really reaching. I would have thought my performance in the practical sessions would speak for itself, but I guess you didn't notice, seeing as you were too busy flirting with every guy in the school save for me."

"I don't consider you worthy of even the time of day! I can't be expected to waste time on someone like that."

"Well, I wouldn't even ask to borrow a quill from a frigid bitch like you!"

"No, you wouldn't. Like a typical American, you'd just take it."

"Resorting to the 'Typical American' argument, now? If that's all you got, I guess French girls are really just empty shells." Their tempers flared, and had anyone else been on the balcony, they would be the center of attention, just what they were competing for.

"You insufferable, egotistic, barbaric low-life!"

"Pompous, narcissistic, Hell-spawned, platinum blonde banshee!"

The very second following Chey's heated and well versed name-call, their lips had locked together. After a short moment of this embrace, they came to their senses and pushed each other away.

"What the hell was that?!" he yelled.

"I don't know!" she said.

"What were you thinking?!"

"I don't know!" she said again.

"I was talking to myself!" he clarified, and she appeared to be asking herself the same question. "Okay, let's try and clear this up. We were arguing, right?"

"Yes." She seemed to think that a recap of events would help make sense of it all.

"You called me a low-life..."

"Yes, and you called me a banshee."

"A Hell-spawned, platinum blonde banshee," he corrected her. "Then what?"

"I don't know. We kissed?"

"No we didn't."

"Yes we did!"

"I know! I know!" he yelled. He took a moment to go over this once again in his head. "How did we go from banshee to kiss?"

"It was the last thing I wanted to do."

"Same here. It sure as Hell shut you up, though."

"It silenced you as well. We may have both been thinking we wanted the other to stop talking..."

"And we figured that was the only way. That make sense, right?"

"Yes, perfect sense!"

"Yeah! So, what now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know, do we act like it never happened?

"How do you suggest we forget something like that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't just forget something like this, Chey!"

"Hey, wait a minute."

"What?"

"We aren't yelling anymore," he noticed. "Why not?"

"I don't want to yell."

"Neither do I. What do you make of that?"

"Maybe...maybe that needed to happen."

"What?"

"This may have been a good thing..."

"You're kidding."

"No! Think about it: are you angry anymore?"

"No, I'm confused! Wait, you're thinking we're not supposed to mad at each other at all?"

"Y-yes!"

"And how do you come to that conclusion?" Chey asked, now frustrated.

"In the middle of an argument, we kissed for a reason we can't explain, and that ends the argument. How can you not draw the same conclusion I did?"

"With a lot of difficulty, I can. So what do you suggest we do?"

She herself leaned against the balcony wall next to Chey, though she had less concern for its integrity than he did. She barely had time to say "I suppose" when it gave way, and she began to plummet towards the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. Chey watched her fall for a fraction of a second before leaping over the wall after her.

Without bothering to pretend to use a wand, he cast the same spell of his own design that he used the year before to pull Viktor, Sergey, and Nikolay into the lake at Durmstrang. The spell caught her, and he pulled them together, slowing her fall at the cost of accelerating his own. For good measure, he tried it again, and she was slowed down enough that she would hit the rocky shore at a safe speed.

Chey, however, was falling twice as fast as he normally would have, and continued gaining speed. He turned around and cast the same spell again, latching it to the balcony wall. Confident he was out of danger, he pulled hard on the wall.

Unfortunately for him, the wall was not done failing after it collapsed when Fleur leaned on it. The wall crumbled under the weight Chey put upon it, and he continued his fall, followed by the stones that had fallen from the balcony.

Chey never had the luxury of seeing the ground approach, as he was still staring at the pieces of the wall he had broken apart as they followed him towards the ground. At this point he wondered why he leaped to his almost certain doom to save this girl who had given him so much grief, and failed to come up with an answer before blacking out.

* * *

Author's note.

To see a picture of Chey that Lunan has drawn, visit the Spirit of Fear section on my website, (link on my profile page).


	15. Chapter 15, Reconciliation

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

Reconciliation

* * *

Chey woke up, aching like never before. He opened his eyes to see Fleur's face staring back, her hair and clothes drenched by the lake's water. Another moment of consciousness told him he, too, had been in the water at some point. She seemed to think his first words were warranted:

"Son of a bitch."

"Are you okay?" she asked, also a perfectly acceptable thing to say in that sort of situation, far more acceptable than what Chey said next.

"What the hell do you think?" She forgave his tone, blaming it on the pain she suspected he was in.

"Are you in much pain?"

"You think? Do me a favor and get me at least one of the following: a bottle of extra strength aspirin, a high-yield Episky spell, or a very stiff scotch."

"I can't get you the others," she said sympathetically, "but I'm very good at healing spells," and she proceeded to heal just about all his injuries, from cracked ribs to his bleeding arm.

"How'd you get so good at them?" he asked, still in something of a daze. He looked around and found himself sitting propped up by the rocks at the lake's shore beneath the castle's east balcony.

"Whenever my friends and I had practice duels, I always seemed to have the fewest injuries, so I was usually the one who healed most everybody. Though I've never been very good at performing them on myself, so it's almost a useless skill."

"It's not useless."

"Well, then what good is it when I'm on my own?"

"Having the skill is a great asset. Just the potential capacity is useful in any situation."

"How's that?"

"Magical powers are amplified by our emotions. The Patronus Charm is a prime example. You never know how good you'll be, only how good you've been."

"Kind of makes sense." She paused, then looked at his waist. "Your wand!"

"Dammit!" He looked down at the place he kept it and saw no such wand (nor illusion of one) was there, and he couldn't think of an explanation. Fortunately, and inexplicably, Fleur came up with one for him.

"It must have gotten lost during the fall!"

"Yeah, that's gotta be it!" Chey couldn't believe his luck. An awkward situation had arisen and just as quickly was explained away.

"No it isn't," she said after a long pause. "Your wand never fell away from your belt."

Confused, Chey tried to get a better grasp on what she was saying. "But it had to! There's no other explanation!"

"Chey, it was always with you until shortly after I pulled you from the water." She had a slightly guilty look in her eyes. "I wondered if your wand was special in some way, so I picked it up from your belt, but it disappeared as soon as I grabbed it." Chey could do nothing but stare at her, feeling trapped. He knew there was no getting around it. Yet another person was about to learn more about him than he cared to tell the average bystander on the street. "You know what happened and why. Explain it to me."

"First tell me what happened when I blacked out," he said in an effort to gather the time necessary to formulate a way to explain the situation with his wand.

"Fair enough. You hit the rocks about five times, fell in the water, and some pieces of the wall fell in after you and I think one of them hit your shoulder, then I dragged you out. Now explain."

"Fine. Just promise me one thing: everything I say here stays between us."

"Why?"

"Because if anyone knew the truth, I'd be on a one-way trip out of here."

"Why would that happen?"

"When I applied for transfer here, I wasn't being entirely honest."

"You mean you didn't attend all those schools you said you did?"

"No, no. I really went to them, and the grades were real. I just didn't exactly leave them voluntarily."

"You were expelled?!"

"Keep it down. I was expelled once, in Venice. The three American schools have it officially listed as 'bar from returning,' because over there you can't be expelled after the final exam has been taken, and when I left Durmstrang, it was according to a deal I made with the headmaster."

"What kind of deal?"

"I'd take the rap for what I did and my friend would be left alone in return. Although I bet in a moment of spite Karkaroff will mark it down as an expulsion. Now if anyone found out that I lied on my application, I'm gone. You understand?"

"Yes, of course. I won't tell a soul. But what does that have to do with-"

"Have you ever seen a wand get destroyed?" he interrupted, and she shook her head. He sat up on the rocks and started to explain. "It's kind of surreal, like an execution for a piece of wood, with witnesses, and executioner dressed in black, and even the opportunity for a last minute reprieve. And if it's your wand, you have to watch."

"That's horrible."

"In my case, it was that much worse. They levitate it in the air, and the executioners cast a modified Reducto curse as they swing their own wands like swords, and normally the wand breaks in half in a fiery blaze of glory."

"What do you mean by 'normally?'"

"Mine shattered anti-climactically. Then the pieces just disappeared, and now they've kind of merged with my right arm. Whenever I feel like it, or when a spell takes a lot of effort, the pieces of the wand glow."

"Really?" she said, seeming to believe every word as long as he confirmed it. To convince her, he caused the shards of light to appear around his right forearm once again, each one pointing in a random direction. She stared at the spectral pieces of wand and the lights reflected in her eyes.

"Normally they point in different directions, like now, but they align themselves when I need to focus."

She said nothing, just continued to stare at the lights.

"Since then," he said as the shards disappeared, "I've been able to cast magic without relying on an outside amplifier, which is all a wand really is."

"But what happened to the wand that disappeared?"

"It was an illusion."

"A what?"

"I'm an illusionist." Her face showed confusion and disbelief. "Illusionry used to be a fairly commonplace skill, but recently we've become few and far between. Anyway, the wand was always an illusion. Has been since my third school in Colorado. In fact, my real wand never even looked like the illusion."

"How different could it be for you to hide it?"

"Not even remotely like the traditional type. It was ash, fifteen inches, dragon heartstring..."

"Okay, it's a little long, but so what?"

"...And there was a carved dragon twisting around the handle. It was the only one in four countries that didn't reject me. Not a single store in the States had one, not in Russia where we thought a Veela hair might be compatible, and not even in France. We had to resort to Olivander's in England. He kept it way in the back, said it was the only one that failed to sell since the store opened back in 382 B.C. Everyone who ever picked it up got burned, so we tried it as a last resort."

"That is odd."

"In fact, he was so glad if finally found a match that he gave it up for free."

"He gave you a wand that he made for free?"

"First, I highly doubt he was alive to make it in 382 B.C. Second, he doesn't know who made it, only that it was given to the store's founder when it opened."

"You're full of surprises," she commented, staring at him. "How is it you can resist me?"

"And you're full of surprising questions."

"Every man I meet falls head over heels when he sees me. What makes you so immune, even now that we are not screaming at each other?"

"Veelas don't affect their own kind."

"What...what do you mean?"

"My great-grandmother. She moved to the United States and it was so easy for her to pick up men. All she had to do was walk down the street, and they'd follow her. It made it easy for her to pick the man she wanted. I'll bet she gathered them all in a crowd, and pointed to her choice. Anyway, as a result, my grandmother was half veela, and my mother was a quarter veela."

She was silent, her mouth slightly open.

"What, you didn't notice?" he asked.

"N-no!"

"You can't sense others who have veela blood?"

"No! Why would I?"

"Huh. Must be a guy thing."

"Why didn't I see it when you were speaking to me so casually when we first met?" she said to herself.

"Wait, that's why you followed me that first day? You were hitting on me?" Her guilty expression told him what he already knew. "Son of a-"

"Chey, I'm sorry!"

"Why didn't I see it?" he asked himself.

"I stopped, didn't I?"

"Yeah, when I disagreed-" he stopped himself. "Hold on. You didn't antagonize me because I disagreed with you about Sirius Black, nor did you hate me because I beat you in the duel. You resented the fact that I could resist you!"

"That's-"

"It makes sense!"

She seemed to be trying to come up with an alternate explanation, but couldn't find one. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am!"

"It also explains the kiss."

"Whoa, wait a minute!" he tried to stop her. He hadn't factored that into the logic.

"No. After the kiss, I didn't hate you anymore."

"Then why did I kiss you?"

"Well...looking back on it...it did seem more like I kissed you."

Chey let out something between a tisk and a sigh. "Let's get back to the castle, it's getting dark."

On their way up, they continued talking, though silently agreed to leave their last topic for later.

"Can anyone learn how to make illusions?" she asked.

"Most illusionists are born, but even then they need training. In fact, someone could go their entire life never knowing they were illusionists because they either never heard of it or lacked the proper training."

"Can you teach me?"

He looked at her, almost admiring her ambition.

"Maybe. It's kind of a long shot, though."

"I'm willing to take it. How did you learn?"

"I had an ancient wand fuse with my arm."

"Is that a prerequisite?" she asked lightheartedly.

"It helps."

"How?"

"When the amplification and focusing device, such as a wand, is part of your arm, it unlocks your potential and let's you use the most complex of spells."

"Illusions are complicated?"

"Insanely. Takes a very clear head."

"I'm nothing if not clear-headed!"

"Oh really? Twenty minutes ago you kissed me for no reason."

"I had a reason!" she declared, then said rather softly "I just didn't know it at the time."

"Anyway, a clear head is not a guarantee." They had reached the castle's doors, and Fleur had opened them and taken a step inside.

"I'll take the risk. You can give me my first lesson tomorrow morning!"

"Morning?!" he called after her as she went through the doors.

"Saturday. See you then!" And she closed the doors behind her.

"Women," he said, still standing outside. "I need to talk to someone who listens," he muttered, and started heading towards the stables where Mayla was residing.

Along the way, he took the opportunity to contemplate on his own terms just what happened earlier that day.

"What the hell does she want to learn illusionry for?" he wondered aloud. "Why is she so willing to potentially waste so much effort on something she probably can't do? Is this all a tactic in this competition of ours? Nah, that can't be it. She doesn't strike me as the type to be so underhanded, or she would have done this sooner. Maybe she thinks that if I teach her this, I'll teach her other things. Wait, that would mean she wants a tutor, and there's no way I'd do that. Besides, if she wants to be an animagus, she's going to have to learn on her own."

He arrived to find all the horses eagerly awaiting their dinner from none other than Chiffon, who was carrying Maya's dinner towards the sleeping dragon.

"Hello, Chiffon."

The little elf gasped. "I is sorry sir. I shall leave."

"No, it's okay. Listen, let me feed Mayla. She can get kind of grumpy when someone wakes her up." He carried the raw meat (lamb this week) over towards the resting Opaleye, and nudged her awake. Mayla stirred and opened her pupil-less eyes that gave the Antipodean breed it's name, and after recognizing Chey began to devour her meal.

"Chey McGonagall and Fleur Delacour have reconciled, sir?" Chiffon asked while standing aside. Chey looked at her a moment, bewildered as to how she had acquired such an idea. The elf seemed to read his mind, and said "I is seen you walking together."

"Just keep that little tidbit to yourself, okay?" he requested of her, exasperated by the day's events.

"Yes sir! Of course, sir!" and she proceeded to tend to the giant winged horses.

"Hey, Chiffon?" he asked when she was about to leave. He wanted to know something and he knew a house elf would give him an honest answer.

"Yes sir?"

"Do you think Fleur is the kind of person who would lie to get what she wanted?"

The elf thought it over for a moment, then answered "I is not think so, sir. She is never done that before."

"Okay, thanks," he said, satisfied, and the elf left the stable. He continued to keep Mayla company for a while longer, then patted her behind the neck and went back to the castle.

Back in the dormitory, he got ready for bed, all while wondering how on earth he was supposed to teach something he knew instinctively.

* * *

Author's Note.

Fleur's quite the type-A personality.

Sorry to leave you all with that cliffhanger. (They fell off a cliff! Get it?! I guess not. Stiffs.) I just didn't want to spoil the mood.

I still appreciate all your feedback, and continue to look forward to your opinions.

Next chapter, get ready for a history lesson as Chey explains the lost art of illusionry! (That's probably the only teaser I'll ever do.)


	16. Chapter 16, Civil Conversation

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

Civil Conversation

* * *

Chey awoke the next morning and, realizing it was the weekend, refused to get up.

He didn't have much choice in the matter, though, because Fleur had entered the room and cast a summoning charm on the covers. He let out a cry of surprise, and, after seeing who it was, cast another summoning charm on the covers using his hand (without bothering to illusion a wand), and the blankets obediently flew to his hand.

"What about my illusionry lessons, Chey?" she asked as she pulled the blankets away again.

"Lesson number one," he replied, "A learning mind needs ample amounts of rest," and he pulled the blankets back.

"I'm rested," she said, pulling the covers away and sticking them to the ceiling.

Looking at her handiwork, all Chey could manage to say was "Aw, hell." After applying a little more effort to wake up, he realize that she was in the boy's dorm. "How'd you get in? Can students visit either dorm?"

"No, you're not supposed to visit us. The girls can go anywhere."

"Of course you can," he muttered. "Why should school be any different from real life."

"What are all these?" she asked, indicating the many posters Chey had put up to cover the powder blue that annoyed him so.

Without missing a beat, Chey answered in rapid succession. "1969 Dodge Charger, the 1987 Washington Redskins, a North American Roccaverden, A Peruvian Vipertooth, and the theory behind the Patronus charm. I'm starving. Are we going to get some breakfast or what?"

"Why do you guys never have any bacon?" he asked in the dining hall. By entering the hall together, they had singlehandedly silenced every one of the hall's occupants. Everyone stopped their conversation to wonder silently why these two would have less than ten yards between them. All eyes followed them as they walked to a place at the table, and the whispers started with a fury when they sat down next to each other.

"Why would we have bacon?" she asked in response.

"You guys have pork, don't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then what's wrong with bacon?"

"It's not appetizing at all!"

"I'll tell you what's disgusting: snails. This whole country is backwards. You eat snails but not bacon."

"I don't eat them either, but for the same reason I don't eat bacon."

"Well bacon is just pork, only fried in a skillet."

"Shut up and eat breakfast, Chey."

"Just not the same without bacon."

"If you're going to keep talking, then at least tell me what the first lesson will be like."

"This is it: lecture. You're going to learn a little history."

"That's it?" she said, sounding disappointed.

"Don't worry, it's very interesting. Illusionists used to be the bridge between the magical and non magical worlds. In fact, the stories about magic that the non magical population has invented stem from stories about illusionists."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you ever look at the history of the human race, and wonder why wars were so few and far between way back when?" he asked, and she nodded only in understanding of what he was talking about. "Well, back then a lot of wars were decided by illusionists. You see, two sides would agree to meet with an impartial illusionist, and he would simulate the battle. The winner of the simulated battle became the winner of the war, eliminating the need for blood loss."

"Were these muggle armies?"

"Oh yeah! Of course, modern magical governments have done a great job covering up that fascinating bit of history from both worlds."

"Why both?" she asked. Chey had to admit it did seem odd.

"First, they hid it from the non magical world, in order to keep the secret. Second, if the modern magical world knew that the existence of witches, warlocks, and wizards was common knowledge to the ancient world, they'd start to question the need for secrecy today. Does that make sense?"

"More than you'd think. So even a losing army just accepted it?"

"Well, every now and then, human nature would get the better of them. They'd accuse the illusionist of working for the enemy and start the battle anyway. Only once did the outcome of the real battle differ from the simulated battle."

"What happened?"

"Sneak attack. After the simulated battle, they pretended to be fine with it, then ambushed the enemy while they slept. They were the smart ones. Anyhow, about a fifteen hundred years ago, the newly formed magical governments established their statutes of secrecy, and the illusionists couldn't settle any wars anymore."

"So what did they do?"

"Nothing. Deciding battles was all they did. In a way, the great art of illusionry was reduced to a parlor trick. For a while, illusionists maintained their fame by throwing the best parties, but when people began to see through them, they started partying with people who had money, like royalty and such. Eventually, illusionry became the lost art it is today. On the plus side, so few people can recognize an illusion, so it's good for scaring the living daylights out of people. Ninety percent of UFO sightings are the work of bored illusionists."

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely! Sure, you can blame it on airplanes flying in formation, but chances are it's an illusionist, just like alien abduction stories. You start to feel bad for the victims until you realize how funny it is."

"How did they simulate the battle?"

"Back then, illusionists were the most powerful witches and wizards around. They created an illusion of each soldier, and each weapon they held. These illusions were so intricate, they could interact with the physical environment. Maintaining all these illusions required a crazy amount of focus, so no one could even touch the illusionists in the process. If he or she was interrupted, the whole thing would dispel, and they'd have to start again."

"So how would I cast the illusion? Is it like conjuring?"

"Completely the opposite. Conjuring involves creating actual, solid objects. Illusions are images of light that can be altered and, if made properly, can interact with the physical world. They are completely under the control of the caster. Conjurings, on the other hand, either act on their own or just sit there. Now, after hearing that, can you see the advantage of an illusion?"

"When will you start teaching me?"

"Tomorrow. We've talked long enough. It's almost lunch."

Indeed, students who were in the hall for breakfast had already left, and some others were coming in for an early lunch.

* * *

Despite how much she protested, Chey refused to begin teaching her for the rest of the day. Instead, they spent the day getting acquainted as though they would have had they not been sniping at each other from day one. Something about her opened Chey up. Despite knowing her only two months, he talked like the two of them had been together for years.

The other students took quite a while to accept that the two of them were no longer on shouting terms. Eyes followed them wherever they went, and whispers ensued as they walked.

The next day saw Fleur's first illusionry lesson. Though she failed to create a simple ball of light, the simplest form of illusion, Chey thought she'd made progress. According to him, step one was getting in the mind set, and he thought she was halfway there.

After a few days of lunchtime sessions, she was finally able to summon up the simple light that is indication of getting the right frame of mind, and by Friday that week, Halloween night, she was able to create and maintain multiple lights at once. They had decided that they would celebrate by taking Saturday off from lessons.

Although they had been getting along so well the past week, there was one issue they hadn't resolved.

"Dammit, Black!" Chey yelled at the newspaper Saturday morning. "You're going the wrong way!"

"What's the matter, Chey?" Fleur asked between bites in a croissant.

"Sirius Black was reported to have infiltrated Hogwarts castle."

"He's in England?"

"Scotland, yeah."

"Well at least now they know where he is. That's good, isn't it?"

"No!" Chey cried.

"Okay, I'll humor you. Why is it bad?"

"Because if he'd just skip across the Atlantic and enter the United States, he'd be granted political asylum."

"And why would they give him that?"

"Because no self-respecting American citizen thinks he's guilty!"

Fleur was quiet for a moment while she comprehended the idea of someone thinking a man such as Sirius Black might be innocent, then asked Chey for a deeper explanation. "Tell me, Chey. How is it that the single-most politically divided country in the world could possibly be unanimous in it's opinion of Sirius Black's innocence?"

"Oh, I should have known you'd be unaware. Okay, here's the deal. Back when the darker years of the Death Eaters' reign were winding down, there were a lot of arrests being made by the British Ministry of Magic. In fact, there was so much going on that there weren't enough government agents to cover it all, so the United States Department of Sorcery lent the British a task force. It just so happened that members of this task force were assigned to investigate the Pettigrew murder when it was called in. Black was apprehended on site, just because he was there."

"And he had ties to the Dark Lord."

"Allegedly. Those claims were never proven. Regardless, those rumors did make him a person of interest. After an on site interrogation, they started to investigate the crime scene. You know what they found?"

"Pettigrew's finger?"

"Yes, but also that there was no way Black could have committed it."

"Then who killed Pettigrew?" she asked, still humoring him, but keenly interested.

"There's a theory that Pettigrew never died, just went into hiding, and cut off his own finger as incriminating evidence against Black. But it's just a rumor. Anyhow, the man in charge of upholding criminal law in England at the time was Barty Crouch, who was not happy with the results of the investigation. He was on a roll convicting people, and he didn't want outside investigators throwing a wrench in his prosecution machine."

"Then what did he do?"

"The only thing he could do: bypass Black's trial. It was the only way to ensure that the evidence never got heard."

"Couldn't he get in trouble for that?"

"He did. Kind of. You see, the American investigators told their superiors back home, and they mentioned these facts to Crouch's superiors. Of course, they couldn't fire a man with such an impressive record, and if word got out, the entire Ministry's image would be tainted. So, instead of going a step up to become minister, he went a step down to International Affairs."

"He was demoted?"

"For violating Black's right to due process, yes. Now, when this happened, the American government disclosed just about all of this to the public, and there was outcry for Black to be released and Crouch be fired. As you can see, neither happened, so ever since, the U. S. Department of Sorcery has offered Black a safe haven should he ever get out."

"Why not release him themselves?" she wondered, now thoroughly convinced in Black's innocence.

"Well, that would require military action, not to mention potential retaliation by the British government. No, all they could do was wait for Black to escape. Of course, now he has and he's going the wrong way!"

"There's nothing you can do, Chey."

"So you're with me on his innocence?"

"Yes, and I want to help him too, but there's nothing we can do."

Chey thought this over for a moment, then said "I need to send a letter to my aunt."

"What good will that do?"

"She's right there at Hogwarts. Maybe she can convince them. Only problem is that first I need to convince her, and that hasn't worked in four years."

* * *

Author's note.

Who knew the two of them could be civil towards each other? I did, of course!

Chapter Four (Travels) has a Red vs Blue reference. Find it. Win an imaginary cookie. Offer expires upon the next chapter's posting.


	17. Chapter 17, Impression

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

Impression

* * *

Chey never did manage to convince Minerva of Sirius Black's innocence, though she did say she hoped (for Chey's sanity) that Black would smarten up and escape the country. For the most part, Chey and Fleur avoided further conversation about escaped fugitives, innocent or otherwise.

They had found plenty of other topics to talk about over the following month. Chey had told her just about everything, save for his parents' deaths and the letters he got every year around Christmas. He had no problem, however, relating his work at the dragon reservation.

"I think you'd like Chuck if you met him," Chey said to her one day when they were on the subject.

"Is he anything like you?"

"Nah, he's a lot more mellow."

"Then I would find him boring." Chey couldn't help but admire her wit.

"What, not even the dragons he works with?"

"Only if he can wrestle them to the ground with his bare hands."

"I've never known Chuck to do that."

"Then that's that."

"It's not that Chuck's completely boring, it's just that you know me, and therefore you have a high standard for what qualifies as 'interesting.'"

She admired him for a moment, and said "How do you come up with things like that to say?"

Chey thought it over a second, then came up with an answer he was satisfied with. "When I was in Colorado, a friend of mine was really into trivia, and he read once that the average human only uses ten percent of the brain at any time, and together we figured that I use ninety percent of my brain, only it's the ninety percent that wouldn't normally be used." She looked at him, slightly confused. "It's just a theory we had. No idea how true it might be."

"It makes sense now. Only you could come up with something like that."

"I guess there might be one or two other people in the world who could imagine something that bizzare, but the odds of us meeting them are slim to none."

Chey always prided himself on being unique. Every time someone told him they'd never met anyone quite like him, he felt a sense of accomplishment.

By the end of November, after a month of lessons, Fleur was able to create a rabbit that could walk around the room, albeit it had no fur and failed to knock over the flower vase, merely passing through it like a ghost. She was disheartened, but Chey assured her that illusions with hair and physical properties were far beyond her level, perhaps by another year or two.

"You'll get it," he said after this particular session. "Just takes work."

"I know. Listen, what are you doing for Christmas?" she asked, quite out of the blue.

"Why?"

"If you have plans, I won't bother."

"Well, I was going to spend it in Romania and possibly be tricked into spending it with my aunt in England. What's your idea?"

"My family is going skiing in the French Alps."

"And you need me to take out the recyclables?"

"No," she said with a small laugh.

"I see, you got one of your neighbors to-"

"I wanted to invite you."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Your parents are cool with it?"

"No, I'm sneaking you into my suitcase," she said quite sarcastically.

"Great idea! I'm gonna need air holes, though."

"My mother told me I could invite a friend. I want to give her a bit of a shock and invite a boy."

"I can shock her. I'll make a snowman steal her skis."

"You being there will be enough. You do know how to ski, right?"

"I snowboard. Try to keep up."

"Just don't get in my way."

While admiring her quick remark, Chey had an idea.

"You want to see the reservation?"

"The what?"

"The dragon reservation in Romania. You wanna see it?"

"But what about those stories you told..."

"Odds are you won't lose a leg at all. Come on! It'll be fun! I can show you Old Ironbelly, Constance!"

"What?"

"Constance is the oldest Ukranian dragon in the world, so we call her Old Ironbelly. She's as calm as can be, just sits there and waits for people to pet her."

"And how did she get that name?"

"In the Massachusetts Bay, there's an old warship, the USS Constitution, nicknamed Old Ironsides because cannonballs just bounced right off it's hull. 'Constance' sounds kind of like 'Constitution,' so it just seemed a natural fit. I came up with it."

"So you'll be coming with us, then?" she said after staring at him silently for a moment.

"Yeah, I'll be there."

"And I'd love to come with you to Romania."

* * *

Fleur made arrangements with her parents to meet at the school and head straight to the resort. Apparently, she had told them about Mayla the Opaleye, and her sister, Gabrielle, demanded the opportunity to see her.

"Chey, she's been begging me," Fleur explained the day before their arrival.

"I'm not sure," he said.

"How often is she going to meet a creature as beautiful and calm as Mayla?"

Chey was hoping she wouldn't resort to the pity routine. There was no way he could resist the sob story of a seven year old girl who's only wish was to meet an Opaleye.

And so, the next day Chey and Fleur met her mother and younger sister in front of the school. Gabrielle was every bit as cute as Fleur described in her blue parka and white hat as she ran through the light covering of snow towards her sister. Without even introducing herself, she immediately asked "Where's Mayla?" She was definitely they type of girl who knew what she wanted, very much like Fleur.

"She's with the horses in the stables," Chey said.

"Can we see her now?" she asked her sister impatiently.

"In a moment, Gabrielle, dear," said their mother. "Just a moment." She was definitely Fleur's mother. They were so much alike it was spooky. Clearly a woman concerned with looking stylish, she would fit right in with high society in her fur-lined silver colored coat. Chey might have even mistaken her for one of his parents' old acquaintances. "I want to have a talk with this young man." She approached him, clearly hoping her younger daughter would not overhear. "What assurance do I have that the situation is safe?"

Chey grinned. "Would you like to see my Class Echo handler's license?"

"Should I be impressed?"

"I should think so. Then again, my opinion is biased here."

She smiled, seemingly convinced by his candid attitude, and relayed to Gabrielle that it was fine to visit Mayla.

Gabrielle was ecstatic, and squealed with delight upon seeing the beautiful Opaleye.

"May I pet her?" she asked excitedly, somewhat startling the horses.

"Absolutely," Chey said. "Hey, you want a ride?"

Her eyes lit up immediately, then looked to her mother, whose eyes widened in shock.

"W-what?" she stumbled slightly.

"Mother, it's perfectly safe," Fleur explained. "I've ridden on her before." Chey was surprised that Fleur would lie to her mother like that, for Fleur had never ridden on Mayla before. "Chey will make certain she'll never slip off."

After contemplating Fleur's reassurance and Gabrielle's begging eyes, she conceded.

Chey led Mayla out of the stables, while the Delacours followed. He conjured a harness that would allow them to hold onto her better, and lifted young Gabrielle onto Mayla's back, after which he pulled himself up just behind her. With warnings to hold on tight, Chey encouraged Mayla to get a running start.

All throughout the flight, Gabrielle was laughing, and it reminded Chey of his first flight. The feeling of the wind in his face and sense of freedom was overpowering, and every time Chey took to the air there was a hope that it would be just as exhilarating as the first. As they circled the castle, occasionally switching from high in the air to low to the ground, he wondered just how often people realized the sheer rush that could be had just by hopping on a dragon's back.

They returned to the spot where they took off, though not before circling Fleur and her mother twice in a bit of showmanship.

"Please, Monsieur Chey," Gabrielle said after returning Mayla to her place in the stables, "take me up again sometime."

"I'll see what I can arrange," he told her, wisely avoiding to commit to anything. He'd had enough life experience to know that one should not make promises blindly, especially when indeterminable factors, such as overprotective mothers, were involved.

"And we'll have to see about taking me up there one of these days," Fleur whispered in his ear, careful not to let her mother hear, who, speaking of which, was approaching them.

"Thank you for giving her the ride, Chey," she said.

"Any time, Madame," he replied. "Oh, and thanks for inviting me to come with."

"Not at all. But please, call me Apolline."

"Apolline?"

"Yes. There's no need to address me as 'Madame Delacour' for an entire week. You may as well call me by my first name."

"You make a good point."

* * *

Author's Note.

Come on! Don't tell me no one here's an RvB fan! Okay, here's a hint: it's in the beginning of Chapter Four, Travels, before he goes to Romania. I'm also extending this pointless contest to until the posting of Chapter Nineteen (yes, I know that skips Eighteen)

I'm aware this is kind of a slow chapter, but the next one needs a lead in, and I couldn't combine them because I had a specific vision for Eighteen. Yes, Eighteen is one I'm proud of, and there won't be an author's note for it.

As always, I appreciate your input. Keep up the comments (positive and constructive), and find that Red vs Blue reference in Chapter Four!


	18. Chapter 18, Snowblind

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

Snowblind

* * *

"Not a bad place you guys have."

Chey was admiring the Delacours' vacation house, situated right on the slopes of a rather large ski resort. "Cozy" didn't begin to describe it. Made entirely from timber, the house had a slight rustic feel to it, yet the furnishings gave it a parlor room atmosphere.

"Thank you, Chey,"Apolline said.

"So how long have you had it?" he continued.

"It's been in my family ever since the resort opened about fifty years ago," she explained. "We only come occasionally, now. My husband isn't much into skiing these days, but when he was younger I had trouble keeping up."

"Nice." he said. "I just might have to snag one of these places for myself. Any for sale?"

"Not that I know of. The owners rarely let them go."

"Ah, well. So we hit the slopes tomorrow morning?"

"That's the plan," said Fleur, who had said very little since leaving the Beauxbatons grounds via portkey. "But I think Gabrielle is ready to go right now."

Indeed, Gabrielle was all suited up in light pink snow pants and coat and sky blue hat, bouncing on her heels, skis in hand, standing by the door. She said nothing, only whimpered slightly and wore an eager expression.

"Well I'm ready to go if anyone else is," Chey said. Fleur nodded in agreement, and they all suited up. It was agreed that Chey and Fleur would stick together and go at their own breakneck pace, while Apolline and Gabrielle would take it easier.

At the summit, Chey and Fleur stood facing the slope, him in black and red while she sported light greys and blues.

"Yeah, this should be a good warm up," he said.

"I was thinking the same thing," she replied with a smile. "Are you sure your snowboard can handle those turns?"

"Don't you concern yourself about me. Just worry about keeping up with my performance board while you're on those mid-range skis."

"Try not to slow me down."

The two of them were able to hit the slope at full speed, owing to the complete lack of anyone else being on the trail. Neither was really able to pass the other, and they remained neck and neck every time they went down a trail.

After a few warm up runs, they moved over to more difficult trails. Not once were they able to declare a winner in their silent competition.

On their sixth run down a certain trail, this one more populated than the others, they were racing it at their usual pace. As they rounded a wide corner, Fleur fell back.

Chey braked slightly and looked over his shoulder to see where she went, and to his shock saw her tumbling through the snow.

He braked harder, sending powder flying over the slopeside, eventually coming to a stop right in the path of Fleur's fall as she continued to slide down the hill. As her body collided with his, he fell down on her gently, stopping her descent to the base of the mountain. Once he was satisfied that they had stopped sliding, he unstrapped his snowboard and set it uphill from Fleur, perpendicular to the slope to warn oncoming skiers.

"Tell me what hurts," he said to her, not bothering to ask if she was alright, as chances were she wasn't.

"My leg," she answered with a wince, indicating her right shin. Chey removed both her skis and felt the indicated leg for fractures, and immediately found one.

At this time, a passing skier stopped, clearly a regular at the resort and more than likely not a member of the magical world, judging by how sensibly practical his equipment was.

"Is everything alright?" he asked in German.

"She's broken her leg," Chey answered him, surprising Fleur with his perfect German. Now addressing her in French, he said "Don't move." He got up and walked to the treeline at the edge of the trail. After looking at several branches, he finally determined one suitable, and leapt into the air, grabbing hold and hanging from it. He needed only hold on for a fraction of a moment, when the branch gave to his weight and broke at the base.

He walked back to Fleur, where the German was still standing with her. As he walked, he broke the branch into three equal length pieces. He kneeled in front of her, laid the sticks on the ground, gently picked up her afflicted leg, and rolled up the leg of her pants.

"Hold still," he told her. "This is going to hurt like hell."

She cringed in pain as he pulled the two parts of her broken leg away from each other. Soft yet sickening cracks were heard as he set the bone back in place, and she gasped at the pain. He then picked up the branches he had retrieved earlier, and parallel to and equally spaced around her leg. The German, correctly guessing what Chey was up to, handed him some rope to bind the rudimentary splint.

"Should I get a mountain patrol?" asked the German, marveling at Chey's quick thinking.

"It's not much farther to our cabin," he told him. "I'll carry her down and call from there."

"You're sure?" pressed the stranger, still continuing the conversation in German, and Fleur was hopelessly unable to follow.

"Positive. Only about two hundred yards. We'll be fine."

"Well, if you're certain." With that, the stranger moved on, continuing his ride down the hill.

"Obliviate," Chey said under his breath with a wave of his hand towards the man who was now speeding away.

"You know German?" Fleur asked him as he rolled the leg of her pants back down, being careful not to jar her leg too much.

"Obviously," he responded in a neutral tone.

"What else?" she continued, now with a hint of admiration in her voice.

"English, obviously, and you know I speak French, but there's also Russian, Italian, Japanese, Romanian, Hawaiian, Gaelic, a little Arabic, fluent Latin, and I'm working on Bulgarian." She seemed stunned at the long list, which he had never mentioned before. He had now reattached her skis, and was on his feet ready to help her up.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew all those languages?"

"Never came up." He had hoisted her to her feet, and was now reattaching his own snowboard. Once that was done, he picked up her poles and slid over to her and put her arm over his shoulder. "Lean on my shoulder and just concentrate on staying upright. I'll handle our speed and steering."

And so they slowly slid back down to the cabin. Upon arriving, Chey unstrapped his board and removed Fleur's skis, leaning them against the wall. He helped her limp in through the door and sat her down on the couch. They started removing their outer equipment; their coats, boots, and gloves came off, and Chey had started a fire with a snap of his fingers.

"Aren't you going to call the patrol?" she asked, now sitting on the couch, her equipment removed and right leg propped by the cushions and her pant let rolled up, revealing the splint.

"No."

"And why did you have to erase that man's memory?"

"Because it would seem odd for him to see you break a leg today and find you back on the slopes tomorrow in full health."

"What?"

"Just hold still and remain calm," he said as small lights appeared around his arm, pointing in all directions as usual. He held his hand over her injured leg, which was starting to bruise. The lights glowed slightly brighter, roughly aligning with his forearm for a fraction of a second, and the bruising vanished as soft cracking sounds indicated the bone had been mended. Chey then proceeded to remove the splint, the lights around his arm having vanished.

"Thank you," she said finally after several moments.

"It's nothing. The edge of your ski must have hit a rock. Always nasty when that happens."

"Has it ever happened to you?"

"Yeah. When the metal edge grinds against the rock it's like an emergency brake. It stops your board but you keep going, so you fall forward. 'Course, when it happens your edge is shot to hell. I'll see about sharpening your skis back up tomorrow morning." He didn't want to sound like a know-it-all just then, so he changed the subject. "Your leg's going to be tender until at least late tonight. Best if we call it a day."

"You won't tell my mother what happened, will you?" she said, seeming mildly ashamed.

"Why would I not tell her?"

"Well, she'd hate to think I failed at something..."

"You and your damn pride." He could not help but feel contempt.

"What?!"

"Why is it that you cower at the idea of disappointing someone?" he asked accusingly.

"I-I don't know!" After a moment of thought, she said "I suppose it's in my blood."

"You're gonna try and blame this on your parents?"

"No! It's just...veelas are always proud."

Chey could do nothing but stare and sigh. "I guess that makes sense. I'm guilty of it myself from time to time." As he said this, he walked to the window and stared out at the white landscape.

Fleur seemed to sense that it was time to shift the conversation so something less sensitive. "You're very accomplished at healing spells," she said, running her hand over the point where the bone was broken. "Lot's of practice?"

"Romania," Chey said, inwardly overjoyed that the subject had changed. "Even if they don't burn you, they can still break arms and crack ribs. It's pretty much a required skill for all the handlers. Believe it or not, there's only one doctor, and his job is usually taken care of before the victims come in. Most injuries are treated on site."

Chey's job was always a source of amazement for Fleur. She could listen for hours about the reserve. Something about the actually docile nature of many of the dragons held there appealed to her, and every chance she had of learning something about that place was a chance for Chey to amaze her with true stories.

There were, of course, a few stories, and one in particular, that he never mentioned.

"So everyone is good at healing?" she asked, knowing what the answer was.

"We have to be. A teammate is as good as dead if he's stuck in the middle of the field with a broken leg." He paused for a moment, then remembering the original conversation, started it back up. "So do you have a better reason for not telling your mother about this?"

"I don't want her to feel ashamed," she answered, much more confidently this time.

"Still a pretty childish reason. But fine." He now moved closer and sat next to her on the couch. "I won't say anything about this to Apolline."

"Thank you." She stared at him for a long time as he continued to look out the window. After he finally noticed she was watching him, she asked "How long have you had that necklace?"

"You only now noticed it?" he said in surprise. He'd been wearing his mother's necklace since he received it shortly after being expelled from Durmstrang.

"You've always been wearing it?"

"Since June! Oh, right. The Beauxbatons uniform doesn't exactly let others see what's around your neck."

"It's beautiful. Where did you get it?"

"It used to be my mother's." Fleur's eyes widened as she gasped silently, clearly sensing another difficult subject, and looked down in apology. Chey, finding no harm in telling at least her, was quick to counter. "No no, it's okay. You would have heard about it sooner or later."

"You never talk about your parents. Why now?"

"No one else around to judge me."

"But why would anyone judge you?"

"My attitude towards the events in my past aren't exactly the traditional norm."

"What happened." It was odd. Fleur never really asked that question. It was more like she demanded the information. Despite her commanding tone, there was sympathy in her eyes, ready to console him should it be necessary.

Chey sighed deeply, then spoke without looking at her. "The war between the so-called Death Eaters and the resistance was not limited to Europe. There were dark arts sympathizers all over the world, many located in the United States. To counter them, the Department of Sorcery had, in addition to support fighters they sent to Europe, agents seeking out these sympathizers. In the heat of the era, civilians joined the fight, my parents included. There were so many eyes hunting them down that the dark arts sympathizers that they mostly used dark creatures in their fights."

"What kind of creatures?"

"Depended on where in the country they were. If it was the Midwest, there were giants. They used acromantulas for the rural areas, like the forests and mountains, and the urban areas saw a lot of Dementors."

"Dementors in America?" she wondered, her eyes wide with terror.

"A lot more than Europe. They were having a feast over there. During that time, a lot of the non-magical world was preoccupied with fear of the Soviet Union, what with the Cold War going on and all."

"I never heard of any 'Cold War.'"

"Of course not. It had no bearing on the magical world. The politics of two superpower nations like the United States and Russia were of little concern to wizards, who rarely pledge allegiance to non-magical governments. We warlocks were concerned, however, as our country was one of the participants."

"But what about your parents?" she asked, getting the conversation back on track.

"They helped put a lot of people in prison, and the Death Eaters didn't like that. So they ordered my parents be removed from the picture."

"They killed them?" she whispered, terrified that such tragedies existed.

"No. Worse. They ordered a swarm of dementors to attack." Chey was completely passive in his tone. "So they did. At least fifty. My parents lost their souls."

Fleur didn't seem able to speak, so Chey continued.

"Afterwards, the police were left with two lifeless bodies and a two-year old kid who just lost his parents. Seeing as how they were part of the magical community, the Department of Sorcery had to get involved, so they took over under the guise of the FBI. They already knew who had done it, so it was a matter of catching the bastard, planting non-magical evidence against him, and prosecuting him. They managed to contact my aunt, who was teaching in England at the time, and handed the kid over to her."

Fleur reached her arms around him, and pulled herself close. "I'm so sorry."

"I doesn't bother me," he said, escaping her embrace and standing up. "I know it sounds heartless, but I finished grieving a long time ago."

Perhaps thinking there was more to the story, and possibly worried she would have no other opportunity to find out, Fleur asked further, "So you grew up in England?"

"My aunt Minerva taught at Hogwarts ten months out of the year," he explained, now leaning on the edge of the dining table. "She could hardly take care of me all the time. Actually, a friend of my parents looked after me until I was eleven, when I went to Washington Magical Academy. He died that Winter, and I turned into an arrogant jackass. I picked fights, argued, talked back to instructors; you know, stupid stuff."

"You were expelled for such insignificant things?"

"Nah," he answered, chuckling to himself as he relived the moment. "They tend to get mad when you blow a hole in the main pipeline and flood the ground floor with five inches of water."

"You what!" she cried, refusing to believe that the boy who stood before her now could do such a deplorable thing.

"Well, some other students and I wanted to play Marco Polo, and we didn't have a swimming pool, so-"

Fleur raised her hands and covered her eyes, muttering "Stop, stop!" as though not wanting to be witness to this confession. Refusing to listen to any more tales of lawlessness. "I don't want to hear about your compulsive rule-breaking!"

"You're one to talk, always sneaking out in the middle of the night."

"I do not!" she denied, indignation ringing through her words.

"On no less than five occasions," he said, laughing, "I've heard you right outside the door to my dorm, giving Madame Maxime some lame excuse for being out of bed so late!"

"You heard?" she asked, confirming his accusation.

"Hard not to, what with you being inches from the door."

"What were you doing up?" she asked, her tone shifting from guilty to accusatory.

"I...was...about to sneak out to see you."

Her second mood shift made Chey think of a metronome that went in three directions rather than two. "That's so..." she stuttered, and Chey could only assume the word "romantic" was on the tip of her tongue. When she failed to come up with anything more to add to that sentence, she asked "Have you tried to see me before?"

"Several times."

"How did you avoid being caught?" she asked, her eyes wild with excitement.

"Animagus. Disguised myself as a fox."

"Then why didn't you come?"

"Hello? I couldn't get through your door. Fox paws aren't the best for opening latches. And you weren't paying attention when I was scratching the door!"

"That was you? Why not tell me during the day?"

"Well I...figured...you'd...like the surprise."

Without any regard for her leg, Fleur leapt off the couch and embraced Chey tightly. Neither of them said a word while the fire crackled and the front door opened. They pulled themselves away as Apolline and Gabrielle entered. Chey, as part of his promise to keep the day's events secret, caused the pieces of the makeshift splint to vanish with a wave of his hand, as though they had never existed.

"You two are back early," Apolline remarked while removing her coat.

"Got hungry," Fleur said, wincing a bit as she stood on her injured leg. "Just about to start making dinner."

"What did you have in mind?" Gabrielle asked, clearly famished, as she pulled off her boots.

Chey answered, as Fleur was at a loss for words. "We were just going to throw everything randomly into the air and see what lands in the pot."

Gabrielle's laugh broke the tension, and they set about preparing dinner.

After Apolline's delicious dinner, which helped Gabrielle realize she was very tired, Apolline and her youngest daughter turned in, with Fleur announcing she was close behind. Chey, being the last one, decided to go onto the balcony for a bit, just to think about the things he'd said to Fleur.

Fate would have it that would be the night he received his mother's Christmas card. Raithe fluttered down and landed on the railing, the envelope addressed to his mother in his talons. He read it and found nothing in it that was unlike last year's card.

"Who's it from?" he heard Fleur's voice behind him.

"Your leg..." Chey said, merely looking for an excuse not to discuss the letter.

"I'm fine," she answered, though seemed intent on getting an answer. "Who's the letter from," she asked again in that demanding tone.

"Every damn year, my mother's parents send her a Christmas card, acting like she never died. And last June, they sent her this necklace," Chey said, subconsciously touching the raven charm, "saying they thought she would want it back, as if she could still wear it." Now Chey's emotions had begun to run away with him. He couldn't keep it to himself anymore.

"Chey-"

"And every time, it's signed 'Love Mother and Father.' If they really loved her, wouldn't they at least wonder why she never wrote back? Didn't they hear about the attack? The whole damn world heard about it, so how can they ignore something so important just like that?! What's wrong with them?!"

Fleur had no words to say, but the sympathy that was in her eyes earlier that day finally had a chance to come out as she hugged him tightly, neither of them saying a word as snow began to fall around them.


	19. Chapter 19, Collections

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

Collection

* * *

Unsure of how Apolline would react to Chey and Fleur's relationship, the two of them agreed to be mindful of how close together they were while in her presence.

The remainder of the ski trip passed without further injury or otherwise negative event.

"Are we still on for Romania?" Chey reminded Fleur at the end of the week.

"Absolutely!" she cried, all indications of apprehension towards the trip now having vanished, though for reasons Chey could not discern. "I talked to my mother, and we've decided that she and my sister will head home while we go straight to Romania."

"She seriously had no objection to us being alone?"

"No, it's strange. She hasn't said anything to me about us at all. You?"

"Nothing. I don't want to jump to conclusions and assume she'd approve."

"It's not like her opinion would change our decision, right?"

"Only if it changes your's."

"That's sweet, Chey."

Christmas, which incidentally was a day of perfect skiing weather, was their last day on the slopes. Gabrielle found it hard to decide between skiing and her newly unwrapped gifts. The day after, they parted ways, Apolline and Gabrielle returning to France by portkey, while Chey and Fleur apparated to Romania.

"There's something I wondered, Chey," Fleur asked when they appeared outside the reservation's gates. "Why are you so unafraid to use magic outside school?"

"I'm a United States citizen, and therefore subject to their laws, which includes being eligible for certification to use unsupervised magic and apparition at the age of fifteen."

"That's two years before us!"

"Hardly seems fair, does it?" He smiled and led her through the gate, which opened to reveal a short cobblestone driveway lined with small office buildings, where the handlers worked and slept. Fleur refused to see any dragons before seeing Chey's office, though he assured her there was nothing remarkable about it.

As they entered the door with the small bronze plaque with Chey's name, it was clear that Chey was right. Nothing in his office was at all exciting to Fleur, except for everything that fascinated her. From pictures of American cars to books on spell theory, Fleur could not get enough of learning what Chey was interested in. She had even laughed at his old Durmstrang uniform, calling the colors everything from drab to dreary. Then her eyes rested on a pair of keys behind Chey's desk.

"What are they for?" she asked, approaching them, failing see who had entered the door.

"Chey's motorbike," Chuck answered, causing Fleur to jump back and nearly topple over the desk chair. "It's the black sportbike he keeps in the back."

"Chey...you never told me you had..."

"Oh, yeah. Christmas present two years ago from the board of directors that handle my family's finances."

"How generous!"

"Yeah. Bummer there's no decent roads to ride on in Romania," Chey lamented, though only briefly. "How you doing, Chuck?"

"All right," Chuck replied. "This the girl you were talking about?" he added, slightly glassy-eyed.

"Yep. Charlie Weasley, this is Fleur Delacour."

"Nice to meet you, Monsieur Weasley," she said in that intoxicatingly charming tone. "My, that's quite a fiery head of hair."

"Yeah, likewise," Chuck droned, as though in a trance.

"You know, Fleur," Chey piped in as he moved to the back of the room, sensing he had to save Chuck from the veela charm, "my bike's right through that back door if you want to see it. I gotta have a quick word with Chuck. Business stuff."

"Of course," she said, walking through the door Chey had opened for her.

"So, Chuck," Chey finally said after closing the door behind Fleur, "how's Vipe?"

"...Yeah."

"Chuck! Wipe the drool off your chin and focus!"

"What?! Oh. Sorry, Chey, it's just...she's pretty."

"I know. But she's way younger than you."

"Not that much..."

"She's still in school!"

"It's not all that important..."

Chey slapped Chuck on the forehead to snap him out of it, and in the process cast a modified Impervious charm to protect him from the veela effects.

"You back with us now?"

"Sorry again, Chey."

"'S okay, Chuck. How have things been here?"

"Let me just say it's good to have you back. Those new recruits we got last Fall would never have gotten past training back when I started."

"Are they really that bad?"

"I have a hard time believing they know which way is up. A couple of them have nearly been killed."

"Are you saying I shouldn't get too attached to them?"

Chuck laughed weakly, saying, "Good one, mate. But it makes sense. I doubt it'll be long before this job gives rise to a recruit's funeral, although whether it's by the dragons' teeth or my hand, I can't be sure."

"Chuck..."

"It's these damn kids who don't know what they're getting into!"

"No, it's not them. It's the job. Handling dangerous creatures just isn't glamourous anymore, there isn't as much money coming in, and we're no longer the heros."

"What do you mean?"

"A long time ago, little kids would dream of doing something romantic for a living, like taming dragons or fighting the dark arts. But now their dreams have changed. The dragons have turned to lawyers and bankers, and now they fight their corporate opponents."

"I see what you mean. It's a sad day for us thrill-seekers."

"Part of it's our fault, though. We let it happen. Best we can do now is whip these recruits into shape like training should have."

"Maybe we could run an ad campaign?" Chuck said, to which Chey laughed at the broken tension. "Anyway, you go pry your girlfriend away from your bike and I'll fetch Vipey."

"Good idea," Chey said, opening the door through which Fleur had previously exited. He saw that she had lost interest in the bike, which Chey had customized to look even more sleek and slightly menacing, which sat in the room's center, and was now admiring everything else in the room from still more posters to ornate swords to his old broomsticks. "Not a bad collection of stuff, wouldn't you say?" he approached her.

"I can only guess the stories behind these things," she said, gazing at a long-bladed knife that hung on the wall.

"Well, not everything in here's so interesting, but that knife you're looking at now definitely deserves mention." He pulled it down from it's mount and the blade turned from it's dull gray color into a pure white. "No one's ever been able to decide on a name for these, but they are incapable of penetrating human skin."

"Only human...?" she asked, somewhat worried that the blade might take exception to her.

"I'm pretty sure us veela are safe. I've had the edge land on my bare feet several times, but not so much as a scratch ever showed up." Fleur breathed a sigh of relief at those words. "What's remarkable about it, other than being perfectly safe for the user, is that it can cut through anything else effortlessly, even the hardest substances on Earth. Always a clean cut, too."

"That's usefull."

"This particular one was used to cut diamonds. Rumor has it that it made the original cuts in the Hope Diamond. It's also never been sharpened a second time."

"How did you come by it?"

"My dad collected a lot of stuff. Went to a lot of auctions, antique shops, car dealerships-"

"What was that last one?"

"He liked cars," Chey explained, putting the knife back on it's mount. "Had a whole garage full of classics, exotic imports, custom builds, all in perfect shape. His favorite was a '69 Charger that he bought new. Never made any changes to it or anything, just kept in pristine condition."

"Your father sounds interesting."

"I wouldn't know."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think everything you just said was about yourself."

Chey pondered this thought, remembering that Minerva had always told him how frighteningly like his father he was. "Scary thought. Are we going to sit in here all day or are we going to see dragons?"

The two of them left Chey's office, and walked through the gate further down the driveway. Fleur was mesmerized by what she saw: an open field where so many different dragons relaxing, stretching their wings, and even chasing down sheep that had been let loose by the handlers. Immediately upon their entrance, a Romanian Longhorn approached them, gave Chey a sniff, then quickly licked him on the cheek before chasing after a sheep that had just earlier escaped a Ridgeback named Norberta which was now fishing a meal out of a small lake.

"They're so tame..." Fleur commented. "I thought they were supposed to be vicious."

"Well, you're not seeing a representative sample. These are the only ones we're comfortable showing to visitors. Hey, I think I see Constance over there!"

Constance was indeed huge compared to the others, even by Ironbelly standards. Though her size was impressive, her age had gotten to her, and spent much of her time sleeping away from the other dragons. As the two of them approached, she opened slightly one of her crimson red eyes, then closed it just as lazily, allowing them near.

"Just about all she does is sleep. Doesn't even care if you stand on top of her. Won't move or nothing. Go ahead!"

"W-what?"

"Stand on top of her head!"

"No! Chey, I'm not doing that!"

"C'mon!" Chey said, and levitated her on top of the beast's head, which made no indication she'd felt her. Fleur stood rooted to the spot, fearing that some wrong move might awaken some wrath the dragon kept hidden. It was a while before Chey's smile told her that all was well, and she relaxed.

The two of them laughed for a moment, after which Chey felt dozens of sharp pains in his shoulder, and Fleur's eyes widened in terror.

"Vipe," Chey said calmly, "Let me go."

Vipey obliged, then licked Chey on the face repeatedly, knocking him down. Fleur, who still hadn't grasped the hilarity of the situation, leapt off Constance's head and drew her wand, ready to blast Vipey away from Chey.

"Vipe! Vipe! Knock it off! Stop! Go get Fleur! She's over there! Get her!"

Fleur barely had time to react before Vipey's copper colored face was right in front of her's, giving her a sniff before giving her the same licking treatment he had only moments ago been giving Chey, knocking her down as well.

Chey, having recovered from Vipey's onslaught of affection, now stood back to laugh for a moment before finally pulling Vipey away by the tail.

"I think he likes you, Fleur."

"He's just as spontaneous as you are!" she yelled as she dusted herself off.

"Must be what brought us together."

Constance had not stirred once during all the commotion.

Chey and Fleur toured the field, with Vipey following them excitedly. They passed by Brian's cell, and Chey described how he and Vipey first handled him, to which Fleur listened with rapt attention.

"And over there's Norberta. She was the newest dragon here before I came in. From what I hear she was quite a handful."

"But she seems so docile now," Fleur remarked, while in the distance Norberta had ripped from the lake's depth a rather tasty lunch with more enthusiasm than was necessary. "Well five minutes ago she did."

"Every dragon, regardless of breed, is a pain in the ass when they're a year old. She calmed down by the time I got here."

"How do you do this everyday?"

"Do what?"

"Wake up and face this dangerous job every morning?"

"You just keep trying different things until you get it right. Nothing's invented on the first try. And if it is, it was by accident. Either way, something's been invented."

Then, a voice rang throughout the entire reserve saying, "All available high-clearance handlers report to Horntail Confinement."

Chey and Fleur exchanged glances: Chey one of apology and Fleur was worried.

"You have to..." she whispered.

"If I'm on the grounds, I'm on call." He started to walk away, then called back "I'll be safe! Don't worry!"

* * *

Author's note.

You guys are bad at this "Spot the Reference" game. Oh, well. Mercy rule: The Red vs. Blue reference in Chapter Four is when Chey says "He has not tried to bite at all. Not since he bit me the first time," quoting Caboose in the episode where they first meet Crunchbite, the alien (AKA "Fluffy! The alien that only loves!").

Maybe we'll play again some other time. Blarg.

So lately I haven't been writing Spirit of Fear. I have 30 pages of script to write for a screenwriting class, as well as a combined 16 pages of research paper for two other classes. On top of that, I've had to do some video editing for work. Yeah, been busy.

In other news, my latest video project is online. _Twilight Princess, a Music Video_ is compiled using footage from the Wii version of The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess which I had captured personally, and set to Tyler Heath's "Pirates of Dragon Roost Island," a remix of the Dragon Roost Island theme music from The Wind Waker. You can find it in the Videos section of my website (link on my profile). Do enjoy.

I'm surprised at the surge of hits lately, and I'm glad people are reading. Only thing missing is your feedback. I'm lonely without it. It kept me company at night. It pushed me on the swings, and went fishing with me. It even buttered my toast. I miss it.


	20. Chapter 20, Experience

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twenty

Experience

* * *

"I'll be fine! Just wait here, Fleur. Vipe, stay put!"

The dragon obeyed by lying down on the ground, and when Fleur moved to follow, Vipey stopped her by nipping at the back of her blouse.

Chey could only wonder what could be so wrong that all available handler's would have to be called to an isolation cell. Chuck had told him that it could mean either handler was seriously injured or a dragon had damaged the cell walls and was in danger of escaping on a rampage.

He arrived at the Hungarian Confinement area to find all the available handlers assembled, which consisted entirely of himself, Chuck, and some new recruit Chey had never seen.

"You raised the alarm, Chuck?" Chey asked.

"I did," said the recruit.

"And who the hell are you?" Chey nearly accused him, despite the fact that Chey was younger.

"MacElroy. Weasley, what's a kid doing here?"

"MacElroy, this isMcGonagall!"

"That crazy American you were talking about?"

"You can call me names later," Chey interrupted. "Why the alarm, Chuck?"

"Chey, it's Agnes."

"She damage the wall?"

"She struck a handler with her tail. We have to get him out."

"Got it, Chuck. It's a smaller crew than I would have liked, but it'll have to do. You pull him out, I'll run diversion. Go."

Chey and Chuck ran into the cell right away. Upon their entry, they saw Agnes resting around the rock spires, while the handler, bloodied and unconscious, lay fifty yards away behind a boulder he may have hidden behind before passing out. Chuck immediately dove for cover behind the rocks while Agnes was still unaware of their presence, and Chey fired multiple stunners at her head. Though they only glanced off, it was more than enough to garner her attention, and as she rounded on Chey, he took off, keeping sure he was in plain sight.

The plan was going smoothly, and as long as Chey could avoid Agnes's flame, he could keep her away from Chuck. All Chuck had to do was stay hidden and keep away from her tail, all while dragging a potentially unconscious coworker past a dangerous and temperamental Hornail. The both of them would rather deal with a handful of Brians than be in this situation.

Alternating between stunning spells and shield charms, Chey glanced in Chuck's direction and didn't see him.

"Good, he knows how to keep hidden."

When Chey looked a second time, what he saw frightened him. MacElroy was climbing over the rocks, paying no attention to any need for an element of stealth. Chey doubled his efforts to keep the dragon's focus, now moving dangerously close and almost in range of her tail.

Chey saw MacElroy turn around, which could either mean he was retreating back to the door, or Chuck had reached the handler and was heading out, and without seeing Chuck, he couldn't be sure.

MacElroy fell, and Agnes saw him. He had gotten too close to her. It was too late for Chey to do anything. Agnes swung her tail high in the air before bringing it down with all her force on MacElroy. She pulled her tail away, dripping with blood, and the body did not move.

Chey had to assume the worst. However, dead or alive, he had to pull him out. Being the only handler in the cell that he knew of, he needed to create an ally. He pointed his wand at a large mass of rock, and screamed "_Rocca Draconis!_" Instantly, the rocks stirred, and a stone dragon emerged from it.

Agnes, no longer concerned with the insignificant humans in her midst, now turned to the newly created intruder.

Letting the transfigured rock distract her, Chey ran to MacElroy's body. Alive or otherwise, Chey couldn't tell, only that healing spells were failing. He saw Chuck at the entrance, and heaved the body over his shoulder, moving about in the open confident that the Horntail was sufficiently distracted.

They closed the door behind them, and the unconscious handler was carried off, the lone doctor tending to him along the way.

MacElroy was declared dead at that moment.

Chey didn't know how long he wandered the grounds, nor how long it was before the stone dragon would eventually be pummeled into dust by Agnes's tail. When he finally came to his senses, he found that Fleur was standing next to him, and she had apparently heard that something tragic had occurred not too long ago.

"Are you alright?" she asked, and he felt Vipey's head brush his hand.

"I should have told him to stay out," was all he could say.

"Chey, he should have known to stay out," he heard Chuck say from behind him.

"I was in charge! I'm responsible!"

"No one declared charge of the situation, and I had seniority!"

"But I had the higher license! I should have stopped him from participating."

"The alarm said 'high clearance handlers,' and MacElroy wasn't one of them. The only ones at fault are the people who trained him, and I'm sure you won't be investigated."

"That's not what I'm worried about, Chuck. I'm worried that some other rookie is going to die just like that. I don't want this to be a sign of things to come."

"I hear you, Chey. I've been worried about that myself ever since training standards started to slip. Though I doubt they'll be able to overlook something like this."

"You're saying you think they'll retrain everyone here? Sorry, I just don't see them spending that kind of money."

"So become a sponsor, Chey, and supply the money! I'm going to look up on Everson. The healer should be patching him up now." With that, Chuck left the three of them, Chey, Fleur and Vipey, in the direction of the offices.

"I'll understand," Chey said, "if you'd want to head back to France right now."

"No, I'll stay."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. I need to get to know Vipey better."

"He does seem to like you," Chey said, watching Vipey nuzzling her face gently.

"What will happen now that the man has died?"

"His family will come to collect the body, they'll read his will, which we all have to update every six months, and they'll take his belongings and arrange the funeral on their own. Hopefully, the administration will consider the incident as an opportunity to revise the training regiment, but I doubt it."

"I should have known you'd have a process for things like that."

"Yeah," Chey said passively. Hoping to distract himself from the day's events, he said, "Why don't we continue with your lessons?"

"What?"

"Illusion lessons."

"Using magic outside of school..."

"This one doesn't require a wand at all. It simply deals with frame of mind."

"Alright. What is it?"

"The Illusionist's Aura. It's simple, requires only a knowledge of illusionry, and can't be faked. Basically, it's a visual representation of how much magic is attached to you."

"Why can't it be faked?"

"Because it represents power, and you can't fake power."

"...What?"

"It's complicated, but it goes along the lines that magic cannot be copied. The aura doesn't do anything, just let's everyone know how much magic you have."

"How do I do it?" she asked, clearly bored with explanations.

"First, I need to explain that magic is all over, just sitting in the air waiting to attach to you. Magic hangs around you, and when you cast a spell, it flows from the rest of your body to your wand hand. Then it goes into your wand, where it's focused and amplified into something more usable to the average witch or warlock. The actual casting sends the magic into the air. This, of course, leaves a vacuum where more magic from the surrounding area rushes in to fill the gap, so you always have the same amount of magic surrounding you at all times."

"How do I do it?"

"Close your eyes."

"That's it?"

"No, just makes it easier. Get ready to cast something harmless, like a shield charm. I want you to visualize the magic flowing around your body. Now imagine it moving to your wand hand. Imagine casting that charm, and while you do, visualize that magic flowing from your hand, and traveling through the wand and into the air in front of you. Now the magic elsewhere in the air is swooping in to replace what was attached to you that you used to cast the spell."

It was faint, but a glowing, silvery blue smoke which danced more like flames had formed around her right forearm.

"Open your eyes and look at your arm."

She looked at the swirling aura, and the longer she watched it, the more she focused and it became ever clearer.

"The Illusionist's Aura is a reflection of your true self, so it's unique to everyone, much like a patronus."

She said nothing, just continued to stare at the spectral smoke, and she clearly had let her magic shift back to encompass her entire body, and now she was entirely surrounded by the aura.

"You still with me, Fleur?"

"Yes! Yes." She came to her senses, and the aura vanished. "No, it's gone!"

"That's okay. You now know how to do it, so you can call it up anytime. In fact, it's been known to crop up during focused spell casting or when the caster is extremely emotional. Try it again."

She did so and the aura had returned.

"See how smoothly it swirls?" Chey went on. "That means your magic is stable."

"Why would it be unstable?"

"Say, for instance, you and your wand weren't totally compatible."

"Is it this color for everyone?"

"No. Mine, for instance, is equal parts silver and black."

"We're both silver?"

"We're both veela, remember?"

"Of course. Let me see your aura."

"Some other time. I think Vipe wants to fly."

* * *

MacElroy's death had managed to catch the attention of the reservation's administrators, who had launched a full investigation into who had caused it. Chey had his doubts about their motives, though. His theory was that the benefactors wanted to investigate whether it was worth it to continue their investment.

Chuck was more trusting of them, and beseeched Chey to go along with the investigation, however annoyingly transparent it may be.

"Just like I told the other one," Chey said while being interrogated a second time several days following the incident, "Weasley and I went into the Horntail's confinement area, unaware that MacElroy had followed, and while he was in there he made several mistakes that he would have known not to make had he been properly trained, and you can see the results of that quite clearly. Weasley and I were within protocol, he was not."

"Are you saying you're not responsible?" said his interviewer, clearly someone who had never worked with dragons in his life. Chey despised these management types.

"Absolutely. If you want answers, I suggest you talk to the people who trained him. Anything else I have to say is in the other investigator's report."

"So you're done cooperating?"

"I'm done answering questions that have already been asked. Now would you mind leaving? My friend and I are heading off back to France within the hour."

The interrogator obliged, leaving Chey's office no wiser than the investigation's other participants.

"Are you sure you should have been so rude to him, Chey?" Fleur asked once he'd left.

"He's only the first I've ticked off. I've been polite enough to the others. It just bothers me that they're running circles around the real problem, almost intentionally failing to see it."

"So what do you think will happen?"

"One of two things. One, they determine that the training regiment need revision and spend money to retrain a bunch of people."

"And what's two?"

"They shut down the reservation."

"And which is more likely?"

"Depends on how much it would cost to close down versus the price of retraining. You want to take off for Beauxbatons before someone else comes down to ask questions?"

"Yes, let's."

* * *

Chey and Fleur had arrived at Beauxbatons to find the staff had tightened security around the castle. At the main entrance teachers were checking the students returning from break.

"Show me your wands, Monsieur McGonagall and Mademoiselle Delacour," said DuFendere, who, not surprisingly, had the shortest line of students waiting to reenter the castle.

"Why the security checks?" Chey asked.

Apparently happy to finally be spoken to, DuFendere's tone was probably a bit too joyful. "All this business with escaped criminals, Madame Maxime saw fit to put these measures into place."

"And what makes her think Sirius Black is in France?" Chey asked him, not expecting an answer.

"And for that matter, what makes anyone think he's really a criminal?" Fleur said before DuFendere could answer. She surprised Chey, who wasn't entirely sure she agreed with him on that topic. "What proof does anyone have?" Now Chey was certain.

Dufendere could do nothing but stutter and ask for their wands again, to which they complied.

"Doesn't make a whole lot of sense, does it?" Chey asked Fleur as they wandered the halls.

"It all makes sense to me," she said. "They're scared, so they're taking outrageous measures to comfort themselves."

"Yeah, but why now?"

"I'd imagine after Black broke into Hogwarts, they thought he might invade Beauxbatons, though I don't understand why he would."

"It's been a whole two months since that incident. What took them so long to decide on a course of action?"

"Maybe they're on government time."

Chey couldn't walk anymore he was laughing so hard. He even had to sit down in the middle of the hall. Fleur, laughing with him, albeit less intensely, helped him to his feet.

"That's why I like you, Fleur," he said once he had regained the power of speech he had lost in reacting to the shot at how slowly governments make decisions. "How'd you come up with that?"

"I thought it sounded like something you'd say."

"I guess that means I crack myself up."

* * *

Author's note.

Happy 2000 hits to Spirit of Fear!

Yes, Chey and Fleur seem to be getting along quite nicely. How long will it last? Time will eventually tell, as it always does. I know, that was a lame excuse for a teaser. Give me a break. I just had to write twelve pages about format wars. Not an easy thing to do in twelve hours, no sir!

On break from school right now. Sixteen pages of research and thirty pages of screenplay are over! Now I have time to work on Spirit of Fear, a Gundam Wing music video, playing Metroid Prime 3, and upgrading my computer. Somewhere in there is a visit to a renaissance fair. Gonna be a busy week.

I appreciate all your feedback, dear readers, and I look forward to more.


	21. Chapter 21, All Good Things

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One

All Good Things

* * *

The following months were bliss for Chey and Fleur. Hardly ever seen apart, they spent much of their time in illusionry lessons, racing brooms over the lake, flying with Mayla, or arguing together with other students about the innocense of Sirius Black. Chey never would have believed he would be this close to anyone during his first week at Beauxbatons.

Chey still had to keep an eye out for the odd hex cast by an occasional jealous type who still resented the time they spent together. Slowly, however, more and more of Chey's attackers began to realize that there were other fish in the sea. The girls in the school also determined that as long as Fleur wasn't available, they would receive a little more attention.

The two of them continued their academics rivalry, albeit less hostile, and the instructors were so very proud of their two star students. Their fellow classmates had long since learned it was foolhardy to strive for the standards Fleur and Chey had established.

Upon hearing about Sirius Black's second infiltration into Hogwarts, efforts to tighten security at Beauxbatons had doubled. Students now had a curfew of eight o'clock, though it did little to stop Chey and Fleur's midnight walks. Also, reported sightings were on the rise of a silver-colored fox wandering in the castle late at night, and the faculty wasn't entirely sure this was unrelated to increasing numbers of students being spotted out of bounds at night.

"Can't you use a Disillusionment Charm on us, Chey?" Fleur asked in frustration that it was getting harder and harder to avoid getting caught.

"Nah, they got detectors in place for those kind of things. An invisibility cloak would work much better. But alas, I am without."

"Isn't there anything?"

"Could create an illusion to attract attention while we slip out undetected. Just an idea."

"Could you do it?" she asked excitedly.

With a laugh he said, "Probably, but it'd more than likely get us in even more trouble. I think we should keep going as usual, only when we're caught we say we've never snuck out before. What are they going to do, expel their two top students?"

"God, I'm glad you're here, Chey. Who would I talk to otherwise?"

And Chey was beginning to get the feeling that he finally belonged somewhere.

* * *

"McGonnagal. My office."

Madame Maxime had poked her head into the classroom just as Chey turned in his last final exam, Defensive Magic. Bewildered as to what would prompt such a curt tone, he cautiously followed Maxime out the door, while behind him Fleur had only just finished her own exam.

Maxime's great stride made it difficult to keep up, so Chey was consistently ten feet behind her as she led the way to the Headmistress's office. The door opened in front of her and she swooped in, instructing Chey to sit down without ever looking at him.

He did so, taking a seat in front of her desk as she rummaged in a drawer unnecessarily, for she obviously knew where to look for what she was seeking and was putting up an air of frustration.

"I have received an interesting bit of correspondence with an Igor Karkaroff, who contradicts previous statements you have made," she said in a rehearsed attitude that reminded him strongly of his aunt.

"What statements might they be?" he asked, having an idea where the conversation was going.

"More an omission of statements on your application."

"The information was complete as far as I could tell."

"It looked like that to me as well."

At this moment, Fleur entered Maxime's office, breathless from running all the way from the classroom.

"Mademoiselle Delacour," Madame Maxime said upon her entrance, "is something the matter?"

"It doesn't concern you, Fleur," Chey said before she could start.

"Madame," Fleur began anyway, "I must ask what would be so important that you should remove Chey from class during an exam."

"And why must you ask?" came the Headmistress's response.

"Because nothing should interrupt an exam, and I can hardly think of any exigent circumstances which might warrant such an interruption that could possibly involve a model student such as Chey."

"You're questioning my authority?"

"In a sense, I am. As Chey has taught me, even a great leader's actions must be scrutinized when his or her decision causes suspicion."

Maxime smiled in admiration of Fleur's reasoning. "Mademoiselle Delacour, are you aware that the boy you are now defending has been expelled five times prior to attending Beauxbatons?"

"I have to correct you there, Madame," Chey said. "Only two of them are officially listed as expulsions. Those would be the last two. In my first three schools, I'm merely barred from returning."

"A loophole that may have gotten you into Venice and Durmstrang, but should never have allowed you admittance into my school. Igor Karkaroff has sent me a far more accurate report of your schooling."

"And you will find that my grades, accomplishments, and awards are all consistent with what I filed on the application."

"What is not consistent," Maxime nearly raised her voice, "is the report on disciplinary actions. Seems you were quite the firebrand your first year."

"For my second year, you'll find only one unsubstantiated claim that I allegedly stole from several other students, which is quite inconsistent with my behavior pattern the previous year."

"Nevertheless, disciplinary action was taken, just like your third year when you and another student were 'barred from returning' for fighting in the middle of class."

"Which I regret, but it was an after-exam party and all the excitement must have gotten to us."

"And your fourth year in Venice when the entire west wing of the building was demolished?"

"My twisted idea of a prank. A mistake, now that I look back on it."

"And finally, when you deliberately attacked a fellow student using unknown dark magic."

"Is that what Karkaroff said it was?"

"You don't deny it?"

"Only parts of it. It certainly wasn't deliberate, and hardly dark magic. In fact, I took the expulsion as part of a deal that my friend's involvement, which was purely as a spectator, would not be put on record."

"You see now, Mademoiselle Delacour, who you are defending?"

"Monsieur McGonagall had already confessed these events to me, Madame," Fleur said, her voice strong as always when she addressed an authority figure. "If anyone is to be reprimanded, let it be me for failing to report this."

Chey admired her devotion to him, but, "Fleur, I can't let you take the heat for me."

"I agree," said Maxime, who clearly had her sights set on Chey, and none but Chey would fall. "I will disregard your previous statement. Monsieur McGonagall, however, I cannot ignore your blatant disregard for Beauxbatons's school code."

"Madame! Chey is a model student! He has done nothing but excel in his classes, and you have yet to find him guilty of any trespassing!"

"If I let McGonagall's actions slide, what sort of example am I setting? Letting him get away with lying to accomplish what he desired will only give other students the impression that some are above the law, and I won't have the ensuing chaos while I'm in charge!"

"Let it go, Fleur," Chey said, thinking what a shame it was that her face was wrought with despair. "It was a good run."

"Monsieur Chey William McGonagall," Maxime said, pulling out and opening a file Chey could only guess was his record, "you are hereby-"

"Wait!" At the sound of Chey's words, Maxime froze with her quill barely an inch from the parchment's surface, a drop of ink just begging to fall from the tip. Chey stared at his watch, while looking out of the corner of his eye at the parchment in front of Maxime. When he saw a bit of ink appear in the grades section, he said, "There!"

"Rather dramatic, Monsieur McGonagall," Maxime could only say, while Fleur watched him in bewilderment.

"My last exam has just been graded, so it will be on my record as occurring prior to my expulsion." Chey couldn't help but admire his own shrewdness.

"Clever, McGonagall, very clever."

"Thank you."

"Though not enough to stop me completely. You're still getting expelled," and Maxime made the necessary note in the file. "I want you off the grounds immediately."

"Seeing as you're no longer my headmistress," Chey said in a complete change of tone, taking both Fleur and Maxime almost by surprise, "I was wondering if I might make a request as one person to another?"

"You may," Maxime said cautiously. "Though I wonder the possibilities of my granting it."

"Regardless," Chey continued, brushing off the snide remark, "might I be permitted to remain on the grounds for the remainder of the day?"

"Why?" Maxime asked, and Chey noticed Fleur had leaned forward with anticipation.

"Well, I have things to pack, goodbyes to say, you know." Maxime seemed unimpressed, so Chey continued. "You wouldn't want the students to get the idea that Beauxbatons accepts people who just take off seemingly without reason, do you?"

Maxime must have taken the school's public image very seriously. She sat back in her chair to contemplate, and Fleur had moved up so she was standing right next to Chey.

Finally, the headmistress spoke. "I'll allow it." Fleur immediately wrapped her arms around Chey, overjoyed that she could spend even the slightest bit more time with him. "However," Maxime said, and Fleur froze, "understand, Monsieur McGonagall, that this favor will not be without price."

"What price might that be?"

"I cannot easily forgive you for deceiving the school, as well as myself." Now Chey was paying attention. "So I am going to take the most appropriate action. For tarnishing the school's reputation for having only the highest standards, your own reputation will suffer."

"What are you saying?" Fleur asked, somewhat frightened.

"I am going to destroy his good name, Mademoiselle Delacour. Monsieur McGonagall, I wish you luck finding another school that will take you once the whole world knows your history of expulsions. You're going to need it. I suspect you'll also have great difficulty finding employment as well."

"Madame! That's far too cruel!" Fleur cried, and Chey saw her aura flicker slightly, signaling the extent of her anger.

"Let it go, Fleur," Chey said, though he knew she wouldn't. "I guess it was only a matter of time. Better now than sooner, right?"

"But-"

"No, Fleur. Madame, I accept your reasoning, and only hope the photo of me the papers print won't be too unflattering. Come on, Fleur." Chey put his arm around her waist and they walked out of Maxime's office together while Fleur glared at Maxime over her shoulder.

"She never should have done that!" Fleur complained moments later.

"Actually, I'd rather it was her than the people at Venice University. They were really upset about that whole west wing issue. Probably would have portrayed me as the next Grindelwald."

"But what about next year? You do have a plan, right?"

"Actually, I'd figured I'd be able to stay here, so I never really made any arrangements."

"What will you do? Go to your aunt's school?"

"Not snowball's chance on a hot summer day in Hell. Actually, I think I'm done. Anything further would probably slow me down, so I might find a good library and teach myself stuff that I'd never learn in school."

"You'll come and teach me those things as well, won't you?"

"You should understand me well enough by now to already know the answer to that."

"Thank you." Then, with a mischievous smile, she said, "I hear Hogwarts has a very good library."

"Nice try."

They went to the dormitories, where Chey said to his schoolmates that he was taking an early break, and after he had packed his things told them to be on the front lawn at quarter to eight.

Chey and Fleur walked down to the stables where Mayla was kept, only to find Chiffon already preparing her for flight.

"I is heard you were leaving, Monsieur," squeaked the elf.

"Appreciate it, Chiffon," Chey thanked her as he heaved his belongings onto the dragon's back, conjuring ropes to secure them in place.

"You'll keep in touch?" Fleur asked him, refusing to release her hold on his arm.

"I'll even visit, both during the summer and next year." He started to climb onto Mayla's back, but could not proceed what with Fleur still clinging to him.

"One more thing," she said, her eyes glazed with sorrow. "When I first met you, you were a wall of illusions, and over time I was slowly able to see past them. I learned you are very caring, and underneath a hard exterior you are troubled by the tragic events in your life."

"Just don't say any of this in front of the guys."

"Joking aside, there is still one final illusion you have never relented, not even to me."

"Fleur..."

"I have seen the real you, and I accept you for it. What on earth makes you think I would think any less of you if I saw what your wand really looked like?"

"Huh?"

"You told me that your real wand looks nothing like the illusion. I think it's perfectly reasonable for me to ask to see it."

Chey admired her desire to know him. It was so rare that he found anyone willing to spend longer than five minutes with him before wishing they were elsewhere. Fleur was so unique. The longer they were together, the more they dreaded being separated.

"You got it," he said. He had only extracted the wand from his arm once before, to explain it's fate to his aunt Minerva after it had been broken, and found it to be an excruciating process.

He closed his eyes to better concentrate on each piece, commanding them to move outward. It took all his willpower to stop from screaming as each one of the dozens of shards felt ripped from his forearm. Reeling, he opened his eyes and saw the wand in his hand, and though it felt like the flesh had been shredded, his arm showed no sign of any damage.

A feeling of emptiness washed over him. He felt incomplete as he handed the wand over to Fleur, who took it gently as though handling his very life.

"Ash, fifteen inches with dragon heartstring core," he said, though she heard little of it.

True to his word, a carved dragon entwined around the handle, and despite it's age of two thousand years or more, still held the luster of a newly varnished wand. It had a spectral glow as though the ghost of what was once alive.

"It has such a...presence," she said, mystified.

"A bit overwhelming, I know-"

"No, it's not...I feel...safe."

"Really?"

"Never more so than now."

"Come to think of it, it's never let anyone but me hold it. Always burned everyone else."

"Maybe it just needed to know who to trust."

Ever insightful Fleur had peered past Chey's illusions once more, and he realized that she was one of the few he had ever been able to trust, and remembered just how much he would miss her.

"Quarter to seven right now," he said, breaking the tension. She handed back the ancient wand, and he shuttered as it broke again into pieces and dug into his arm once more, and the emptiness Chey had been feeling was lifted. "Shouldn't keep the audience waiting."

"I'm going to miss you."

"I know."

After a long goodbye kiss, she finally let go of him and he pulled himself onto the dragon's back. They stared at each other's eyes for what seemed like an hour, neither wanting the parting to be true, and Chey kicked Mayla into motion. As the dragon gained a running start, Chey refused to look back at Fleur, fearing that doing so would make their separation too real. Mayla leapt into the air and spread her great white wings and glided over what seemed like the entire Beauxbatons student body which had assembled on the front lawn.

They soared over the castle, heading east, and Chey looked back to see a lone figure standing near the stables as he left behind yet another place he once called home.


	22. Chapter 22, Words on a Page

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two

Words on a Page

* * *

Though he never expected it to be a joyful return, Chey was still shocked by how bittersweet his arrival at the reservation was. Vipey was anxiously awaiting him just inside the gates, though still happy to see him, it was clear that he was disappointed Fleur was not with him.

Chey decided to say hello to Charlie.

"Hey, Chuck!"

"Escaped again..." Charlie said, staring at a newspaper, seemingly unaware of the company that had just entered in his office. "So close..."

"Marriage announcement of a school crush?" Chey could only guess.

"Sirius Black was captured!"

"Why doesn't that idiot just run away from the danger?"

"But he escaped again!"

"Really?" Chey asked excitedly, smiling for the first time since leaving France.

"Yeah! Just as they were about to take him away! They suspect somebody broke him out."

"Who would do that?" Chey thought, hoping to shake that person's hand.

Charlie only now looked up at who he was talking to.

"What are you doing back so soon? I thought it would be another week, and even then you said you would just drop off Mayla and visit your girlfriend at her house!"

"Plans changed."

"What changed?"

"Remember that thing that happened last year? And the year before that?"

"Chey," Charlie said in perhaps an overly dramatic tone, "your aunt is going to murder you!"

"Yeah. I'm going to brush up on shield charms."

"That won't nearly be enough, mate. She'll hex you, I'm sure!"

"It all depends on how I tell her. Now, I'd should probably send her a letter before some reporter tries to interview her."

With a look of fright and awe, Charlie asked, "What could you have possibly done that would make it into the newspaper?!"

* * *

"_My Dear Chey,_

_Your dramatic departure is all anyone can talk about. Every night at quarter to eight, some fifty people gather on the front lawn and wait eagerly for another such demonstration, not that I advise coming anywhere near Madame Maxime again._

_Several reporters from the Daily Prophet's office in Paris have come around and interviewed some of the students, myself included. Rest assured I spoke very highly of you, though I doubt they were looking for some people to sing your praises for an article about your many expulsions. The silly reporter blatantly told me what it was supposed to be about, and asked if I had any inside information that might help. I tried to devise a witty retort like you would, but alas I couldn't, only made a point about her hideous crocodile-skin handbag._

_Mother tells me you can come by at the end of June. We haven't told Gabrielle about your visit; we want it to be a surprise. Mother tells me you're all she can think of, and she keeps asking when she'll see you again. Of the same token, my father is anxious to meet you, though possibly just so he can say he's met a McGonagall. Like it or not, your family is famous among the aristocracy. You've clearly made an impression as Mother cannot wait for your arrival, so I suppose I could have saved ink and said that my entire family is excited to see you._

_I understand you already know, but I really do miss you. Every morning I wake up, thinking the moment you left was just a nightmare. You are the first boy I've met who appreciated me for who I am, and I feel as though your having to leave is due to a curse put upon my life that dictates I must never have a meaningful relationship. As such, my guilt is overbearing, regardless of whether it is warranted._

_Here's hoping you and Vipey are well, and I hope your aunt isn't too irrational when you inform her of your unprecedented sixth expulsion (even if the first three don't count), and I will see you later this month._

_With a love that mere quill and ink cannot even remotely express,_

_Fleur._"

Chey reread Fleur's elegantly written letter which had been delivered by Raithe who inexplicably knew to stay in France so he may deliver it, admiring the beauty of her penmanship that accurately represented her own stunning appearance. Smiling, he put it down on his desk and picked up another that had arrived that same day carried by a ratty-looking screech owl.

"_Chey,_

_Needless to say I am upset by the news of your expulsion yet again. I could have easily told you this would happen. Beauxbatons has always been very strict about guidelines, and not even you can keep a history like your's a secret from a woman like Maxime._

_I expect that she will enact a swift revenge upon you, though not in the normal sense. She is above such common ideas of retaliation, and will more likely resort to character assassination techniques. You may want to brace yourself for a flurry of angry letters._

_No doubt you have decided you need no further schooling, and now plan to pursue knowledge on your own. I can only discourage such behavior. Meaning no offense to your abilities, but learning is best accomplished when you have others to learn with. Just know that I am here._

_Be safe, my misguided nephew._

_Minerva._"

Not even Minerva's disappointed tone could dash Chey's elated mood. He went on to read the letter that a beautiful saker falcon had brought him.

"_How are you, Chey?_

_Saw your name in the newspaper. Nice picture of you._

_Shame you got expelled again. Like old times, yes?_

_You probably heard we made it to the top four in the Quidditch World Cup. As such, every member of the top four teams gets a few handfuls of free tickets to the final game in England. They've given me more than enough for my family, so I'm left with seven._

_Sergey and Nikolay told me they only want two each, so I have three left for you. I doubt even you could get seats this good._

_I'll meet you shortly before the game starts. See you then._

_Viktor._"

They were indeed good seats. Not quite where the snobs sat, but close enough. At least he wouldn't have to bump elbows with such spiteful people. The tickets sat on top of a newspaper article Viktor had clipped out, and a picture of himself stared up from the page above the headline.

"_Expelled the Sixth Time: American Student Can't Conform_

_Chey McGonagall, seventeen year old American wizard, was recently expelled from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic after it was discovered he had falsified information when he applied for transfer._

'_Such transgressions are unacceptable,' said Beauxbatons Headmistress, Madame Olympe Maxime. 'Upon learning the extent to which he lied to this institution, I immediately had him expelled.'_

_A severe punishment, yes. However this is not McGonagall's first time dealing with such a scenario._

_At Washington Magical Academy in the United States, McGonagall had a record of discipline problems, culminating in damage to the building at the end of that year. Due to bylaws in the American education system, McGonagall could not be expelled as it had followed the final exam of that year, and as such he could only be indefinitely barred from returning._

_For McGonagall's second year he was accepted into Miami University of Magic, also in America. In stark contrast to the previous year, there was only one incident that got him into a spot of trouble. Late in the year he was suspected of stealing from several of his fellow students, a claim which he continues to deny despite the mountain of evidence against him._

'_He admitted he flooded the ground floor of his first school,' said Fleur Delacour, a Beauxbatons student in McGonagall's year. 'Why would he lie about stealing from classmates?'_

_Delacour, who initially shared a bitter rivalry with McGonagall at the beginning of his Beauxbatons year, was reported by other students to be intimately close to him, and spoke very highly of him and refused to 'damage the reputation of his name.'_

'_It's possible that their friendship has clouded her judgement,' remarked Headmistress Maxime in response to Delacour's comments._

_In a bizarre turn of events, the verdict on McGonagall's guilt was not decided until after final exams had taken place that year, and the same loophole that saved him from true expulsion the previous year had struck again._

_McGonagall seemed to develop a short temper during his third year at Colorado School of Sorcery. The school's officials expressed regret in a correspondence interview that nothing prevented them from allowing him admittance to this third American school._

'_He and another student had been at odds with each other,' said a Colorado School official who wished to remain anonymous. 'This animosity hit a boiling point during an after exam celebration. We'd like to think it was just the excitement that got to them, but considerable damage had been done to school property, not to mention bystanders. We had no choice but to bar them both from returning, as the time for expulsion had already expired.'_

_Seeming unsatisfied with causing what his fellow students have dubbed 'utter chaos' only in the United States, McGonagall applied for the Venice University of Magic in Italy. Officials said that, as there was nothing in the code's language that expressly prevented his acceptance as he was never technically expelled, a point McGonagall argued strongly during the admission process, he was admitted without further question. McGonagall's record was spotless that year save for one incident the day after the last exam._

'_Looking at the record for that year you could say it came out of nowhere,' said a Venice University representative. 'In reality, however, there were dozens of charges prior to the incident, though McGonagall managed to argue his way out of them.'_

_The details of the incident are sketchy at best, though the aftermath is clear. The entire west wing of the school's structure was demolished, and McGonagall denies ever having an accomplice._

_McGonagall's expulsion, now possible outside the restricting United States, came too late to make it onto the record he had submitted to Durmstrang Institute of Wizardry, his next place of education, though Headmaster Igor Karkaroff took note of it and weighed it heavily when McGonagall had attacked another student by dark or otherwise unknown means no more than thirty minutes after he had completed his last exam that term._

_McGonagall was immediately expelled, though witnesses state he seemed much more accepting of it than previous times._

_Now having two real expulsions on record, McGonagall's only option to get back into the education system looked to be deception._

_While every grade, accomplishment and award on his application checked out to be true, he had left the disciplinary fields blank, which Headmistress Maxime admits she skipped over after seeing the impressive scores he had reported, as well as his up-front payment of the tuition fee._

_It was not until Maxime and Karkaroff had discussed McGonagall through correspondence that Maxime had learned of McGonagall's record, and fate would have it that it was discovered only after the final exam period._

'_Madame Maxime was unfair in her decision. Chey was in the top of our class while he was here. Is expulsion how Beauxbatons really rewards students for succeeding?' Fleur Delacour said emotionally, herself also a top student at Beauxbatons._

'_Beauxbatons strives for only the highest standards,' Maxime said in response to Delacour's statement. 'McGonagall's expulsion was justified. We cannot allow students to falsify information in order to get ahead.'_

_Chey McGonagall was unavailable for comment, but his aunt, Professor Minerva McGonagall, a teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had this to say:_

'_I have only the highest confidence in my nephew. He is a talented boy who had run into unfortunate events, many of them he has been unjustly punished for.'_

_Following this statement, a poltergeist drove this reporter out of the Hogwarts teacher's office, so Professor McGonagall was unavailable for further comment._

_Chey McGonagall is the only son of William and Alana McGonagall, victims of a vicious Dementor attack fifteen years ago that cost them their lives. Chey was the only survivor of that attack, which would have more recognition today if it did not bear a striking resemblance to a similar incident which occurred two years later in Godric's Hollow, England, that resulted in the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named._

_There is not yet word on whether he is pursuing admittance into a seventh school, as his closest confidants have not disclosed any such information._

_Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet Correspondent._"

Annoyed only by the fact that they failed to recognize Americans as "Warlocks," he glanced at he many letters he had received from acquaintances. Much to his surprise, they were all words of support from former classmates and teachers. Old friends from Venice even thanked him for not mentioning the parts they played in the destruction of the west wing. Many of his teachers expressed their hope he would not abandon his learning pursuits in light of recent events. Even the Department of Sorcery officials who certified his dragon license had said they could pull some strings if he ever needed them to.

He did, however, receive an envelope that tried to bite his fingers off from the boy he fought his third year, but he half expected it.

He now looked over his own letter he had written addressed to the editor of the Daily Prophet.

"_To the editor,_

_I wish to correct the error in the article 'Expelled the Sixth Time.' We Americans prefer to be addressed as Warlocks, not as Wizards. I hope this clears the confusion._

_Chey McGonagall._"

Satisfied it was snarky enough, he had Raithe carry it off.

Looking at Fleur's letter again, and figuring Minerva probably wouldn't be as entertained by the World Cup as others, he picked up the tickets, along with his cloak, and headed out the door.

* * *

Author's note.

Well, there it is: Chey's disciplinary history. Surprised? I hope not. You should know him enough by now to expect most of that.

I have to say, writing fictional newspaper articles is fun. Seriously, folks, try it. It's a good writing exercise. You may surprise yourself what a good newswriter you are.

Well, alas, my break is over and it's back to the grindstone. After setbacks, 900 dollars in new parts, and a reinstall of Windows Vista, my main system is working again, playing Battlefield and Unreal. I also visited the Renaissance Fair, bought a decorative sword and some leather gauntlets, and sweated so much that humid day there were salt lines on my shirt. In other news, I've begun working a new music video, and I have discovered Bittorrent. Yes, I was busy on my 1.5 weeks of break. Of course, now it's looking like I'll be busy for a while still. I'll do my best to keep writing.

As always, I appreciate all your feedback.


	23. Chapter 23, Invitation to a Game

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three

Invitation to a Game

* * *

The Delacours were not short on style. Even their house seemed to emanate the veela charm.

A beautiful chateau in southern France, it's rosy outer walls glowed in the afternoon sun. With the appearance of a Gothic architecture renovated into Victorian style, it stood out among the other houses in what was clearly an entirely wizard community, evident by pedestrians casually walking the streets in wizards robes and discussing the upcoming World Cup.

Chey only knocked once on it's white oak door before it was flung open and he was assaulted by a blur of silver hair.

"Fleur, you're going to have to let me breathe," he managed to gasp after half a moment. She released her vicegrip hug on his neck and stepped back to let him through the door.

The foyer was just as elegant, and would undoubtedly give an excellent first impression to visitors. A white marble floor reflected the ceiling's carved floral design while two ornate staircases framed the entrance to walnut double doors leading to the salon, through which Gabrielle was looking to see who was at the door. She did not stay there long, as she was soon rushing across the finely polished floor excitedly with open arms, shouting his name.

"Now you can't possibly be Gabrielle," he said after picking her up in a hug.

"But I am Gabrielle!" she said defiantly.

"Nah, can't be! You're much more grown up than I remember her!"

She giggled excitedly when she discovered the compliment and kissed him on the cheek.

"Smart, this one," he said to Fleur, who still had not said a word out loud to him.

"Takes after her mother," came a voice, which Chey discovered belonged to their mother, entering from the side.

"Apolline! How are you?" he asked the woman whom he found very attractive in an off-limits sort of way.

"Very well. How's your head after that fall you had in the terrain park?"

"Still attached. Your sore knee?"

"Much better. You're very good at Episky charms, young man."

"So I'm told," he said with a sideways glance to Fleur.

"We were wondering if you'd forgotten to come," Fleur finally said quietly.

"Sorry. Had to arrange a few more things."

"Well I wish you'd informed us," Apolline said to him. "Fleur has been gazing out the window, watching for you."

"So that's how you knew it was me at the door," he figured, and Fleur could only look guilty.

"Wait a minute!" Gabrielle almost shouted, still in Chey's arms. "You knew he was coming?!"

"Surprise, Gabrielle!" Chey said, and she kissed his cheek once more.

"Are we entertaining?" sounded a new voice, deep in tone. It belonged to a somewhat rotund man about a head shorter than Apolline with a little pointed black beard. He entered the foyer from the upper landing and descended the stairs, eyeing Chey as though he should know him from somewhere.

"Papa, this is Chey!" Gabrielle informed him, clinging to Chey's neck.

"From the newspaper?" He connected the dots and finally gave him an approving look. "Fleur was right to say you're a very handsome young man."

Throwing a second sideways glance at Fleur, Chey saw she was trying to suppress her embarrassment with a small degree of success save for her cheeks flushing pink.

"Huh. She never told me that," Chey said in mock scorn.

"If you don't mind my asking," came Apolline's voice once more, "what was it you were so busy with it delayed you a few days?"

"Actually, it has to do with something I'd like to talk to you and your husband about real quick," Chey explained. Now turning to the Delacour daughters, he said, "If you don't mind."

"No," Fleur answered. "Come, Gabrielle. It'll only be a moment. Right?"

"Yeah. It's not like I'm leaving right afterwards."

Reluctantly, Gabrielle relieved Chey of his neck and he set her back on her own feet. The two sisters entered the salon and closed the door, as though trying to assure the others they weren't listening.

"Can they hear through the door?" Chey asked.

"Not easily. Why?"

"Because few things in the world hurt more than having your hopes raised and dashed in the same five minutes." Indeed, he didn't want the girls to know what he had planned, just in case their parents didn't approve.

"A true statement, Monsieur McGonagall," said Fleur's father. "Now what is it you wished to speak about?"

"I'd like to take your daughters to the Quidditch World Cup in England."

Monsieur Delacour was aghast, and finally managed to assemble the words "Thank goodness for you, young man!"

"Pardon?"

"I was afraid I'd have to call in a favor to get tickets for them! Naturally they're all sold out, and they've been hinting like mad that they'd like to go!"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to invite the two of you as well..."

"Another relief, then! Apolline and I have never been much for the sport..."

"Although this does raise an issue," Apolline said.

"What issue might that be?"

"Well, we're concerned for our daughters' safety."

"As any parent should," Chey said, figuring that saying they were good parents couldn't harm their impression of him.

"What assurance do we have that nothing will happen?"

"I'm not sure I..."

"To put it a little more bluntly, you will be alone with them on what is possibly an overnight event, and with the girls' heritage being what it is..." Now Chey's mind dawned with the realization of what Apolline had meant, and his expression must have shown it. "We just want to know there is no chance of any such thing from happening."

"You do know," Chey said to them both, "that those with veela blood are immune to the famed charm?"

"Yes," Monsieur Delacour said, unaware of where he was going with this.

"Well, my own mother was quarter-veela. I'm quite sure I'm safe from any magical allure they can throw at me, intentional or otherwise."

Appoline glanced at her husband, apparently convinced. Monsieur Delacour, trusting his wife's judgement said, "You children have fun at the game."

"I'll go tell them where they're going, then." Chey opened the salon door to find the girls jumping away, and Fleur looked rather nervous. "Everything okay, Fleur?"

She seemed unable to speak, and Gabrielle was shaking with suppressed laughter.

"It's fine," Gabrielle bareley managed to say.

"Okay. Got a surprise for you two." He fanned the three tickets two inches in front of Fleur's eyes. She took them from his hand with trepidation, examined them, and threw her arms around his neck once more in what Chey imagined to be a form of relief, though he could not explain why. Gabrielle hopped in place, reaching for the three pieces of paper in Fleur's hand so she may look at them. When she finally got a hold of them and had a proper look, she squealed with delight and latched onto his leg, nearly toppling him and her sister over.

"When are we going?" Gabrielle asked, now having released Chey's leg and staring at the tickets again.

"Just waiting on you two. Go on up and pack a few days of clothes and we'll be off."

Gabrielle took off for the stairs immediately, though Fleur lingered a moment, as though wanting to say something, but apparently decided it could wait and followed Gabrielle up the stairs.

"Demolished the entire west wing of Venice University?" Monsieur Delacour said, though Chey couldn't tell whether it was amusement or scorn in his tone. "How'd you manage?"

"Teenagers are very resourceful," he answered.

"I never would have been able to do it. Was always afraid of the rules." With a statement such as this, Chey could determine that Monsieur Delacour's tone was that of a grown man reminiscing about the joys of youth. "Must have been quite a sight."

"What's life without a little excitement, right?" Chey said.

"Though I have to wonder why," Apolline remarked, the voice of reason.

"That's a good question, Apolline. I guess I was just bored."

"That's it?" she asked, clearly unsatisfied with such a short answer.

"That's the best I can come up with. Sorry."

"We're ready, Chey!" Gabrielle came running down the stairs, a piece of luggage in hand, while Fleur followed her at a brisk, though more reserved pace.

The girls said goodbye to their parents and left the house with Chey. He pulled from his pocket a set of keys, which glowed slightly blue.

"What's that?" Gabrielle asked.

"Ordinarily, they're the keys to my bike. Today, they're a portkey. Grab hold, you two."

The moment they touched the keys they were pulled forward, a swirl of images flashing by them, until finally they landed hard on the ground. The girls had not expected the sudden stop, and collapsed to the ground. The keys fell from Chey's right hand and he caught them with his left.

They had arrived in the middle of a deserted moor. All around them, more groups were arriving via their own portkeys, some stumbling more than others. Those who had already arrived were setting off towards a small stone cottage, beyond which hundreds of tents could be seen.

Just outside the cottage was the site manager, speaking to a slightly balding man with fiery red hair. In an instant, a British Ministry official, evidenced by his poor understanding of non-magical clothing, appeared next to the manager and modified his memory.

"Morning, Roberts!" Chey called to him, taking advantage of the distraction.

"Ah! Morning Mr. McGonagall!" he called back, and the children grouped with the balding red-head whipped around to see who Roberts was speaking to.

"Poor guy," Chey said to the girls.

"Why?" Gabrielle asked, clinging to his and Fleur's hands.

"'Bout every thirty minutes they have to change his memory," he explained. "Why they can't just keep an eye on him all day then modify his memory at the end, I'll never know."

"Don't we have to talk to him?" Fleur asked, seeing another group approach the manager's cottage.

"Been checked in since yesterday. Site's all ready."

Indeed their site was set up. Chey, being perhaps the only American at the site, rented a camper he had towed with one of his father's pickup trucks.

Naturally, it wasn't just any camper. As it was the magical world, this one was much like the many tents propped up around it, the deceptive exterior hiding what amounted to a small house inside.

"You two go ahead and pick a bedroom," he told them, "and you'll find dressers to put your clothes into."

Fleur and Gabrielle did so, and Chey went back outside, picked up a can of lighter fluid, poured some onto the already built fire pit, and dropped a lit match onto it in true pyromaniac style.

After admiring the blaze for a moment, he looked towards the path, and saw someone familiar.

* * *

Author's note.

Who could this familiar person be? And what was Fleur so nervous about just before Chey showed her the tickets?

Yes, the events of Chey's seventh year have been put on hold by the Quidditch world cup. I couldn't have Chey simply ignore Viktor's shining moment. That would have made him a bad friend, and Chey is a good person.

I still don't know the name of Fleur's father, and until I find that out, it will be difficult to write scenes with him. Here's hoping either someone figures it out, Rowling divulges that information, or the community comes to a consensus. I'd like Spirit of Fear to be as close to the books as I can get, the only real difference being Chey's inclusion.

As for the camper, Chey just needs to be different. Especially now that he's a lone Yank in a country full of Brits. No, I have nothing against England. It's a fine country with a good sense of humor (with migrating coconuts carried by African swallows). It's just Rowling's wizarding world is so radically different from Chey's personality it will be interesting to see how they clash spectacularly. We'll see what happens.

As always, I appreciate all your feedback and enjoy your comments. I'll do my best to keep writing with my busy schedule.


	24. Chapter 24, Friendly Encounters

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four

Friendly Encounters

* * *

"Laser-Eye Library Girl!"

The girl, something Granger, snapped her head in his direction. She and two other boys had been carrying a couple of empty pots and saucepans. She stopped, but the boys, one with scraggly black hair and round-framed glasses, and one with thick red hair, much like Charlie's, continued a few steps before realizing she was no longer moving.

"What's wrong, Hermoine?" asked the redhead.

"Figure it out yet?" Chey called again.

"Y-yes," she hesitated, trying to remember. "Magic starts in the air, attaches to the wizard, flows through the wand and back into the air."

"Not bad," he said.

"You know him, Hermoine?" came the black haired boy, who then looked at the small sign hammered into the ground. "McGonagall? Professor McGonagall's here?"

"Nah. Minerva's not much for pro sports," Chey answered.

"Then who the hell are you?" said the redhead, now somewhat annoyed.

"Chey McGonagall. Minerva's my aunt."

"She's never mentioned you!"

"Typical. Now who are you two?"

"Ron Weasley." Another Weasley, Chey thought.

"Any relation to Charlie?"

"He's my brother! You know him?"

"I work with him in Romania."

"He never said anything about working with anyone named McGonagall!"

"Yeah, well Chuck's not the type to talk about work." Chey now turned to the other boy, who was much scrawnier than Ron. "And you are?"

"Harry Potter."

"Nice to meet you," Chey shook his hand, thinking he should know him from somewhere. "Now I need to give you nicknames."

"Why?" Hermoine wondered aloud.

"Easier to remember."

"What's so hard about my name?" Harry asked.

"Nothing hard about it, just prefer nicknames. Now, let's see..." He pointed at Hermoine. "Whiskers."

"What?!" she half screamed. "Why?!"

"Second time I met you, you had grown a tail and black fur."

"I was thinking you might be talking about Crookshanks," Ron said. Upon Chey's quizzical expression, he added, "Her cat."

"Now the nickname has a current reference," Chey said. "You're next, Ron. Yeah, you're definitely 'Red.'"

"My hair?"

"Bingo! Last but not least, we have 'Specks.'"

"Why Specks?" Harry asked, who seemed to be dreading his nickname until Chey had announced it, and was now pondering Chey's logic.

"I got nothing else," was all Chey could say.

"Hey!" Red shouted in revelation. "Now I know who you are! You're that guy with the six expulsions!" At this, Specks looked confused, as though he'd been out of touch with the magical world for a week or two.

"Technically, it's only three." Chey hopelessly explained.

"The _Daily Prophet_ talked about you for a week!"

"And the front page headline is framed in my office in Romania. On the one hand, I'm famous. On the other, I get no royalties when the paper publishes my biography."

"You seem to be taking it in stride," Specks observed.

"Could've been worse. Though I am hurt they called me a wizard and not a warlock. Sent the editor a blunt letter addressing the issue."

"That was really you writing to them? They published that!" Red told him, which was news to Chey.

"I never saw it."

"They used it in an article, considered it an interview."

"Huh. That explains why it wasn't in the Letters to the Editor section."

"What is that thing?!" Red cried, spotting the camper at last.

"It's a camper," Chey explained. Seeing their bewildered looks, he said "I'm American. I gotta be different."

"I'll tell you about warlocks later, Ron," newly named Whiskers told him. "I guess we'll see you around, Chey."

"Later, Whiskers!"

The trio left, and it was not a moment too soon, as he heard a cloaked and hooded figure walking the path towards him call in Russian "How are you, Chey?"

"Viktor! What the hell are you doing, hiding like that?"

"Fans. Who'd you end up bringing, your dragon?"

"Nah, he'd never fit in the camper. You know that. Brought a friend from Beauxbatons."

"That girl you told me about?"

"Yep. And no, you can't have her. You have Alexandra."

"We broke up. Just didn't work out. All she talked about was me."

"Sorry, man. Wait, you're not just saying that to get Fleur, are you?"

"You know me better than that."

The Russian conversation was hard enough for the neighbors to follow, but when French-speaking Fleur exited the camper, it became downright impossible.

"Who's this?" she asked.

Feeling mischievous, Chey said in Gaelic, "Fleur, this is my friend from Durmstrang, Viktor."

Disregarding Chey's addition to the confusion, Fleur recognized Viktor's face. "Viktor Krum!"

"Quietly!" Chey said in English, the one common language. "Viktor's trying to avoid the screaming mob." Turning to Fleur, "Gabrielle still inside?"

"Going through your things," she joked.

"Wouldn't be the first time. So Viktor, where's Sergey and Nikolay?"

"Talked to them earlier. Brought their girlfriends."

"Figured as much. Sergey and Mariya still tight?"

"Like a drum, you might say. Nikolay and Catherine aren't doing too bad either. Say, you never told me how you two met."

Chey and Fleur reminisced in their first days of acquaintance, with Viktor laughing at their foolish rivalry. Gabrielle had even come out and was enjoying hearing about her sister's first encounters with Chey, understanding only after Chey and Fleur translated for her.

"What time you got, Chey?" Viktor finally asked.

"Uh, twelve-thirty."

"Damn. My mother's coming. I have to go meet her."

"Your mom's here? I'd like to meet her!"

"No...no you wouldn't." Exasperated, Viktor pulled his cloak over his head once more and took off down the path.

"Little rough around the edges, but still a good guy," Chey remarked. He did a double-take as he saw another old acquaintance walking the path. "Chuck!"

Charlie had been passing Chey's site with what Chey presumed was his older brother, along with a younger boy who Chey thought looked like the prefect from Hogwarts he'd spoken to a year and a half prior.

"You scored tickets, Chey?!" Charlie yelled though they were only some twenty feet away.

"Good ole Viktor! Those your brothers?"

"Yeah, this is Bill and Percy."

"I think I already met the stickler," Chey said regarding Percy, the younger brother. "Saw your little brother, Ron."

"You didn't nickname him, did you?"

"Of course I did! He will be henceforth be known as 'Red.'"

"I suppose you've met his friends, Hermoine and Harry?"

"Whiskers and Specks."

"Not too out there. Who's this with you?"

"Chuck, you met Fleur, and this is her little sister Gabrielle."

"Nice to meet you, Gabrielle."

Gabrielle gazed at the stocky and scarred Charlie Weasley, who's friendly face beamed down on the girl.

"You're not going to get much of a response from her. Not a word of English. But she's learning." Charlie understood, and Chey turned to Bill. "Now which brother is this?"

"Name's Bill," he said. Tall with long hair and a single fang earing, Bill looked like the older brother of Chey's dreams. "Curse breaker for Gringotts in Egypt."

"Nice boots."

"Dragon hide."

"Anybody I know?"

"Couldn't tell you, wouldn't have the heart."

"I like this one." Indeed, Bill was likable. Everything Charlie said about Bill's accomplishments was shot to pieces. Awards and privileges meant nothing now that Chey had met Bill: the argument that appearance has no correlation to degrees of success. Cool was everything.

"Any nickname for him?" Charlie asked.

"Nah. Can't get better than 'Bill.' Why mess with perfection?" Finally, Chey addressed Percy. "Still a stick in the mud?"

"Completely," Charlie answered instead. Percy seemed either unable or unwilling to answer, only eyed Fleur and Gabrielle suspiciously. "Going on about caldron thicknesses all bloody day."

Percy snapped back to reality at those words. "I'm working for the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and my report may show that foreign manufacturers are swindling us by providing poor products. Mister Crouch himself requested it." He spoke with such pride and assumed authority, while Chey's eyes narrowed at his last sentence.

"Crouch, huh? That coot still ain't been fired yet?"

Charlie seemed to sense some form of outburst coming from Percy, and hurried him off, bidding Chey and his companions goodbye.

The remainder of the day saw the three of them meeting various acquaintances from school. It seemed a large group of Beauxbatons students had come together with Madame Maxime, and they all thought it wise if she didn't see Chey so soon after his expulsion. He ducked for cover when the intimidating Headmistress stopped by to conduct the typical chaperone duties of checking on the group of students. They even had to hide the sign reading "McGonagall" which designated the campsite's occupant. Maxime seemed pleased Fleur had made it, though obviously wondered who she came with.

After Maxime departed, and the other Beauxbatons students had left to their own sites for dinner, a rather frightful looking man approached Chey without warning.

"Hardly meet many warlocks these days," the man said, though "man" was a bit of a stretch. His mismatched eyes, one small and beady while the other large, blue and clearly magical, seemed to peer through disguises. Leaning on a long staff, he limped heavily, his long mangey dark-grey hair swaying slightly. His face was far more scarred than Chey could imagine, with a chunk of his nose missing. "You lot tend to stay on your side of the pond."

"Hardly meet a wizard who knows the difference," Chey responded. Fleur and Gabrielle retreated a noticeable degree at the sight of this man. "And you might be?"

"Alastor Moody. Noticed your wand."

"What about it?" Chey asked defensively, not knowing how much that blue eye could see.

"Noticed it wasn't there. Years of experience and I've only seen anything like it once. Always a pleasure to meet an illusionist. Far more rare to see an illusion of a wand. Can only guess why you'd have to."

"How observant."

"Was my job. Dark wizards don't come to you willingly. Need constant vigilance to catch them."

"Not unlike a temperamental dragon." Chey couldn't figure this man out. His speech was friendly, though his manner and tone was hard to approach, and Chey found himself wishing the man would get to the point and leave.

"Of course you'd know. Six expulsions and still a respectable skill level. Even scared old Karkaroff. Impressive. You'd make a fine auror."

"Believe it or not, dragons bite back less." The man was amused at this, and walked away, taking a swig from a flask at his hip.

"Acquaintance of yours?" Fleur asked, coming to his side now that Alastor Moody had left.

"Never met him in my life. Kind of creepy in an interesting keep-an-eye-on-but-mind-your-distance sort of way."

A deep gong sounded in the woods, and hundreds of green and red lanterns set themselves alight in the trees.

"Game time," Chey said, and the three of them marched into the trees with the crowd.

* * *

Author's note.

And now Chey has properly met the three main characters of the books. You can stop whining now, assuming you were whining at all. But is that all he'll see of them? (dramatic music)

What's that? I still haven't told you why Fleur seemed so nervous when Chey annouced he had the tickets? You people are so hard to please. Go ask your mother to tell you about patience being a virtue and all that. Go ahead and speculate, though. I welcome speculation, as it shows the audience is involved.

Yes, Chey has to nickname them. I find the nicknames much more entertaining than their real names. I'm confident you'll agree.

I've found time to write again. By waiting 45 minutes after my last class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, then writing while on the 30-45 minute subway ride, I get an hour and a half of writing time, and I don't have to sit in traffic after getting off the train because it's after rush hour! What joy! Also, I'm back in the mindset that allows me to work while watching midnight episodes of Fraiser, so I'll be accomplishing things again! Hip Hip...

You're supposed to say "Horay!" You disappoint me.

Appreciate all your feedback, dear readers! Speculate away!


	25. Chapter 25, Professional Athletics

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Five

Professional Athletics

* * *

Chey, Fleur and Gabrielle marched through the trees hand in hand, the red and green lanterns lighting the way.

"Stay close, Gabrielle," Fleur warned her sister. "There are a lot of people here, and we don't want to get lost."

"That's right, Gabrielle. If you got lost, we'd miss my buddy Viktor's spectacular flying!" Chey said, unaware it was in English.

"I hardly think," came a voice, "that you and Viktor Krum are really friends."

Chey turned to see a boy his own age walking the path alongside them. There was no question he himself played Quidditch. He had the same gleam in his eyes as Viktor, though the casual observer would never see past Viktor's ever stoic expression. This was a glimmer Chey had also seen in the mirror, and it came from the appreciation of the joys of flight.

"So think again," Chey told him. "I went to school with the guy. Taught him a lot of what he knows."

They boy dismissed it as the ravings of someone crying for attention. However, Chey was not ignored long, as the boy looked at him again. "Should I know you from somewhere?" he asked. Chey glanced at him sideways to see if he himself should recognize the boy, but no one came to mind. "I could swear I've seen your face somewhere."

"I get that a lot these days," Chey could only answer, afraid he might once again be recognized as the American with six expulsions.

"Dad, doesn't he look familiar?" the boy asked his father.

"His face does ring a bell," the older looking wizard. Chey figured his must be a desk job. "Say, boy, was your picture ever in the _Daily Prophet_?"

"Once or twice," Chey answered reluctantly.

"That's it! Cedric, this is the boy expelled from those six schools!"

"You know," the boy named Cedric said, "I never would have known you for a troublemaker to look at you."

"Neither would I," Chey said, wondering again how six expulsions in a row were possible.

"You know, in the whole article about you, they never mentioned how you did in classes."

"He was a perfect student everywhere he went!" Fleur had come to Chey's defense, and glared at Cedric.

"Is this true or is it just your friend defending your honor?"

"True for every word," Chey told him. "Sadly, so was the article."

"Perfect student gets expelled? Why would the article fail to mention that?"

"Because a lousy screw-up makes for a better story than a wronged innocent any day. Besides, the only purpose behind it was to ruin my name."

"Yeah, sure," Cedric remarked sarcastically, clearly not believing a word, and walked away now that they had reached the enormous gold-walled stadium.

At once, Chey sensed the vast number of wards surrounding the structure. He could nearly taste the intense magic and emotions running through the single building. He had a feeling of completeness well inside him, and he licked his teeth instinctively as though he were truly tasting something.

A tug of his hand brought him back, and the three of them began climbing stairs. Finally, they reached their seats, second highest only to the top box, just below the commentator, and a perfect midfield view of the game.

"Chey, you crazy American!" came a familiar Russian voice as they sat down. Turning his head, Chey saw it belonged to Sergey, sitting one row behind them.

"Sergey! What the hell! How ya been?!"

"Spectacular! Mariya, it's Chey!"

Mariya had been clinging to Sergey's arm, and was delighted to see once again the reason for her relationship with him. "How have you been, Chey."

He glanced at Fleur, and said, "I'm doing pretty good." Remembering something, he added, "Hey, Andrey been giving you any flak lately? 'Cause I can take care of that."

"No, I think you scared him straight," Sergey said. "He hasn't bothered us one bit. Glares at us a lot, but that's it."

Fleur looked up at Chey, not understanding a word of his Russian. Chey noticed this, saying "Aw damn, I got no manners." Now speaking in French, "Fleur, this is Sergey and Mariya, more of my friends from Durmstrang." Now in Russian, "Guys, this is Fleur. Found her at Beauxbatons. And over here is her adorable sister, Gabrielle."

They exchanged pleasantries, Chey handling the translation.

"Hey, Sergey," Chey started a few moments later. "It's less than a minute to game time. Where's Nikolay and Catherine?"

"I don't know. If they're not here, they must be in a different box."

"Yeah, that's gotta be it." Chey leaned over the edge to look at the neighboring boxes better, and saw in the box to his right sat Nikolay and Catherine. He caught their attention, and they waved back, though there was no time to chat, what with the commentator's booming voice welcoming everyone to the four hundred twenty-second Quidditch World Cup.

"And now, without further ado," the commentator said in typical sportscaster attitude, "allow me to introduce...the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!"

"What'd they bring," Chey wondered aloud. "No!"

A hundred veela glided onto the field, music started, and the women began their entrancing dance. All around him, Chey saw the male spectators lose all expression in their faces. When the a man sitting near them stood up on the railing, Chey felt he could not allow this to continue, and he pulled his illusion of a wand from his belt and stopped the music. At once, the veela stopped their dance.

"Irresponsible," he could only say, and Fleur nodded in agreement. "Damn near killed someone," he added, and with a flick of his wand the man landed back in his seat, unaware of what he had been doing.

The stadium roared with disapproval.

"OH SHUT UP!" Chey shouted back. "I must have saved a hundred lives just now!"

"And now," came the commentator again, clearly a man smart enough to look away during a veela's dance, "kindly put your wands in the air...for the Irish National Team Mascots!"

Chey immediately recognized the green and gold comet for what it was. The leprechauns showered the crowd with millions of gold coins.

"Aw, that's cruel," Chey said. "Their gold disappears after a few hours," he said when Fleur and Gabrielle looked to him for an explanation.

The commentator announced the Bulgarian team, and seven scarlet blurs shot out of the entrance below, the crowd cheering when Viktor's name was called.

"Viktor!" Chey and Sergey reached over the railing as Viktor raced around the stadium. He must have seen them, for he flew towards them and gave them both the courtesy of a high five as he raced past on his team issued Firebolt.

The Irish players were introduced to equal fanfare. The referee walked onto the field, kicked open a crate and the four balls (the gold one nearly invisible) shot into the air, and once he kicked off the ground the game began.

Chey had to admit Viktor would have his work cut out for him. The Irish chasers were good. Very good. In perhaps less than thirty seconds they'd passed it between them at least ten times and still scored. For a moment, Chey actually cared about the outcome of the game. He was actually worried Viktor might lose.

At thirty-zero, Ireland, the Bulgarians finally scored. The veela started their dance again, and the man from before got out of his seat again. Fortunately, the dance was over before he could do anything foolish, and the game resumed.

Chey decided to watch Viktor for a bit and try to see a sign of activity in his impassive eyes. Just as Chey found him in the sky, he dove for the ground. This was not a normal dive, which flyers usually incorporate some sort of roll beforehand. Viktor only pointed his broom downward, and the Irish seeker, Lynch, followed.

"He's on the move!" Chey yelled, and the commentator only just noticed.

The two of them flew straight through the cloud of chasers, Lynch scanning in front of him while Viktor focused forward. The more Chey watched, the more he thought he recognized their furious descent to the ground.

As if on Chey's cue, Viktor pulled back while Lynch plowed into the field.

"I TAUGHT HIM THAT!" Chey yelled, while Sergey thumped him on the back.

"Call off the veela!" said a voice behind Chey he didn't recognize. "They've driven this boy mad!"

Chey disregarded the voice's ignorance, instead laughing at Lynch's comedic attempts to get on his feet.

Lynch was revived, and play continued without real incident until the score was one-thirty to ten, Ireland, when the Bulgarian keeper clipped an Irish chaser, and the whistle was blown to indicate a fowl by Bulgaria. The leprechauns taunted the veela across from them, they started their dance. The referee got caught in their entrancing charm, and had to be kicked back into reality. Furious, he started shouting at the veela, and the Bulgarian beaters landed to argue with him. Two short whistle blasts indicated a foul by each of them, and they reluctantly took off for the air once more.

Foolishly, they'd let their tempers get the better of them, and were now attacking their opponents without mercy. Finally, it happened. Two chasers, one on each team, collided with each other. Naturally, Bulgaria was not in possession, so they got penalized. Irish supporters screamed in unison, and the leprechauns gestured towards the veela in an uncivilized fashion.

At this, the veela had enough. Their lesser realized traits made themselves known, as their faces turned into the sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads and scaly wings erupted from their shoulders. They attacked the leprechauns with fireballs, and a squad of Ministry entered the field to stop the fight while the game continued above with equal intensity.

After an Ireland score, the applause of which was drowned by the battle between veela and Ministry officials, play resumed and an Irish beater swung hard at a Bludger, which screamed through the air, headed straight for Viktor.

"What was that?!" Chey thought to scream out when it caught Viktor in the face, though before he could Lynch dove for the ground, obviously having seen something. With little regard for his injury, Viktor did likewise, a trickle of blood trailing him. He caught up with Lynch, and they continued their rapid descent to the ground.

Chey never saw what went wrong with Lynch, only that he didn't pull out in time and was stampeded by the veela. Viktor climbed back into the air, holding a tiny gold ball in his hand.

"Just ten points off!" Chey cried, looking at the scoreboard which read "Bulgaria: 160, Ireland: 170."

"At least we know who's the better seeker!" Sergey assured him.

* * *

"Good flying, Viktor! Just remember who taught you!"

Chey, Fleur, Gabrielle, Viktor, Sergey, Mariya, Nikolay and Catherine were all at Chey's campsite, and Chey had cast a broad translation spell to relieve himself of the duty of repeating everything in two languages.

"I haven't been interviewed yet, but I expect I will be soon," came Viktor's response. "I'll be sure to mention you."

"And good feint, too!" Nikolay commented. "That dive had me fooled from the start!"

At the far end of the campsite, the Irish had their celebrations in full swing. Music, shouting, and a few small explosions echoed in the air. Leprechauns soared overhead, illuminating the tents around them.

"Crazy Irish," Chey said offhand. "Too much Guinness."

"We should probably get some sleep," Catherine suggested. "There'll be a mad rush in the morning, everyone trying to get out."

Everyone agreed it was a good idea, and not a moment too soon as Gabrielle was drifting slowly into sleep.

They all departed their separate ways, and Chey carried Gabrielle to her room. After he'd tucked her in, he met Fleur in the kitchen. They sat across from each other at the table, drinks in hand.

"You're so sweet with her," she told him, referring to her sister. "You're very good with children."

"That's news to me," he said. "I've never really dealt with little kids before."

"I never would have guessed."

"Something occurred to me."

"Yes?"

"You hardly said two words when I showed up at your parents' house. Why so shy?"

She dropped her eyes in slight embarrassment. "I didn't know if my parents would like you or not."

"Why wouldn't they? Your mom damn near tried to adopt me at the end of the ski trip, and your dad has probably heard all kinds of good things about me from you, your mom and Gabrielle. What were you worried about?"

As though only now coming to that realization, she said "I suppose it was nothing!"

"Now that I think of it," Chey continued, "you had this expression of abject terror right before I showed you the tickets." She lowered her eyes, remembering the moment. "What was that about?"

"When you asked to speak to my parents alone, Gabrielle and I went into the salon."

"Right..."

"Gabrielle got the idea you were asking my parents permission to marry me."

"Gabrielle thought that?!"

"She sounded so certain..."

"Wait, you were relieved when it was something else?" he asked in a slightly accusatory tone.

"It's not that I wouldn't say yes!" she stammered. "It's just, well, I'm only seventeen! I'm not ready to be married yet!"

"Okay, okay," he tried to calm her down. "I understand. Just so long as it wasn't something about me."

"Gabrielle made me think about it!"

"I get it, she's a little girl with a vivid imagination." Chey felt he had an obligation to keep talking about it, but wanted desperately to change the subject. "How's she handle it?"

"Handle what?"

"A good part of the year, she's separated from you. That's gotta be tough on someone so young."

"She's strong."

"Like her big sister?"

"You think I'm strong?"

"You can hold your own in a duel with me. That takes strength."

"You're bragging."

"You've conquered the veela stereotype and earned everything you have. That takes the strength of hundreds."

Fleur blushed at the compliment, and they gazed into each others eyes. They drew closer to each other, leaning over the table, eyes closed, taking an eternity, both of them intent on what they wanted. Their hands reached each other's faces, now nose to nose, breathing slowly.

An explosion shook the walls, and their eyes opened.

In a response to Fleur's confused expression, Chey said "That sounded way too close."

* * *

Author's note.

Oh, that Gabrielle! What can you do?

I tried my best not to recite the match verbatim. It's harder than you might think. I had to reword everything, but without changing the meaning. What's impressive is I did the whole chapter without a thesaurus in hand.

Lately got my hands on Adobe CS3 Production Premium. Boy is that gonna be fun to play with!

I think I'm back in the swing of writing, and I've just started work on Chapter 30 as of this posting. Here's hoping I can keep the momentum.

As always, feedback is forever appreciated. Keep it coming!


	26. Chapter 26, Screams and Skulls

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six

Screams and Skulls

* * *

Chey rushed to Gabrielle's room after seeing though a window the utter chaos which blanketed the campsite. He couldn't explain why, but he sensed feelings of terror running through the people outside, and from the way he sensed these feelings, he knew their fear was justified.

He roused Gabrielle awake. Feeling time was of the essence, he picked her up, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. They ran out the door, immediately caught up in the swarm of people.

The screams of the crowd were deafening, and everyone seemed to be headed for the forest. Fleur grabbed Chey's hand in an effort to avoid being separated.

With difficulty, Chey was finally able to find the cause. Opposite the tree line was a crowd of wizards, hooded and masked with wands in the air. Above them, four humanoid figures floated in midair, two of them looked like children.

Chey wanted to break it up, to put a stop to what they were doing, but something inside told him to get away. Something was trying its hardest to convince him he was incapable of providing help.

He stood in place amongst the crowd, torn between the need for escaping to safety and a desire to assist the helpless figures levitating above the crowd.

A tug at his hand reminded him that Fleur was by his side and Gabrielle in his arms, and he decided to flee was the wiser option.

They ran through the woods, constantly telling themselves not to look back. Faceless blurs of people were all around them, and each scream seemed to sap Chey's strength. Finally, they breathlessly came to a stop deep in the woods, and mustered the courage to look back in the direction they came.

The screams of the crowd became subdued by the distance they had crossed. Chey slowly felt his feelings of helplessness fading.

To their right, they heard a voice. "Fleur!" A girl with thick, curly hair waved towards them, and they recognized her as a girl from Beauxbatons.

"Jacqueline!" Fleur called back, and they rushed over to meet her and the other Beauxbatons students.

"Where is Madame Maxime? We've been looking everywhere for her!"

"We didn't really pay attention when we were running for our lives, Jacqueline." Chey couldn't help being short with the girl, who was never known to be the sharpest student in any of her classes.

"Well what are we going to do?" Jacqueline voiced rhetorically.

Chey searched the area desperately for an answer. Finally, he spotted a clearing where a pale light shone through the trees.

A tall, beautiful veela was surrounded by young wizards boasting about fictitious accomplishments. She seemed amused by their futile attempts to impress her. Chey decided if there was anyone fit enough to help them, it would be someone who shared a common trait. He handed Gabrielle off to Fleur and approached the woman.

"I pull down about a hundred sacks of Galleons a year!" shouted one of her admirers. "I'm a dragon killer for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures."

"I'd break your nose out of spite if that was true," Chey told him, angry that such government positions really existed. Remembering the frightened schoolchildren behind him, he reigned in his emotions and sent the wizards away with a wave of his illusionary wand. "I need a favor," he said, turning to the woman.

"You've just scared off my admirers," she responded, somewhat scorned. Now attempting to assault him with the veela charm, she said "I'm not in the mood to give favors."

"My mother was quarter-veela, so don't think you can charm your way out of my asking." She seemed somewhat surprised, not so much at Chey's heritage, but more that her charm had failed to sway him. "You're an accomplished witch, are you not?"

"I am," she declared, clearly offended by the thought she could be otherwise.

"I need you to watch those kids until their Headmistress finds them."

"Why would I?"

"Because they're scared, they're alone, and I'm going back to the campsite to handle the situation."

She looked at the students, and sympathy clouded her blue eyes. "All right."

"You speak French?"

"Two years in Luxembourg, of course I do!"

"Good. What was your name?"

"Georgieva."

"Chey. Follow me."

He led her to the throng of students and introduced them, strictly telling them to stay with her until Maxime arrived. When they nodded in understanding, he turned to leave, but Fleur caught his shoulder.

"Where are you going?" she accused him.

"I'm going back to help. I'll be right back."

"How can I be sure?"

Chey wanted to tell her to just trust him, but he knew that would never be good enough for her. He knew she would never let him leave without knowing he would come back to her. "In the time we've known each other, have I ever promised you anything?"

She thought for a moment, and shook her head.

"That's because I don't make promises lightly," he explained to her.

"Then promise me you'll come back as soon as anything goes wrong." She was firm, and Chey had never seen her so decided. He could tell there would be no arguing.

"A-alright." Satisfied with his answer, she kissed him on the cheek, and he could smell a hint of her perfume, and she let him go.

The hurried escape into the woods from the chaos had disoriented Chey. This far away, people were no longer running in a single direction, and the lights from campfires failed to penetrate the trees. Remembering Fleur's perfume, he transformed into a fox and took off, following her scent back to the campsite.

The closer to the tree line he came, the more panicked the atmosphere. Chey willed himself not to let himself be affected by the screams, though he was having difficulty shielding himself from them. Darting around people's feet became more and more difficult as their cries seemed to pierce his very soul, and twice he was kicked hard in the side.

He'd finally reached the campsite, and changed back into himself. Immediately spotting the floating figures, he sprinted in their direction. After running around several tents, a few of which had been set ablaze by some curse or another, he finally had a clear view of the masked and hooded wizards causing the trouble.

"_Expandra Estona!_" he cried, and multiple stunning spells shot out of his wand and flew towards the troublemakers, each of the spells hitting a masked wizard square in the chest. "_Finite!_" and the bodies began to fall, stopping at the sound of "_Arresto!_"

A bright green flash lit up the sky behind him, and he turned around to see the clouds arranging to form a glowing skull with a snake slithering out of its mouth. Chey stared in shock of this spectral shape, while the masked wizards behind him disapparated from the scene.

"Get back here, you cowards!" a voice called into the night. "The whole lot of you haven't a shred of pride in your work!" Limping into view, wand at the ready, was Alastor Moody, his face even more contorted with rage. Moody then took notice of the warlock still standing in the clearing, and spoke to him with what Chey could only guess was some sort of surprise. "Never seen the mark before?"

"To answer that," he responded, "I'd have to know what mark you speak of."

"The Dark Mark," the old man said grimly.

"Not very original."

"It's the Dark Lord's mark. Hasn't been seen in over a decade. Popped up whenever there'd been a killin' back in the days of the war."

"And those losers were..."

"His supporters, Death Eaters."

"Not an ounce of creative naming in this country, is there?"

"Don't take them lightly, warlock! Many of them went free at the end."

"You seem to take some form offense at your justice system's failings."

"Nothing I hate more than a Death Eater who went free."

"Noted. Why run from the mark of their master, then?"

"They crossed him when they wriggled out of Azkaban. You'd run too."

A dozen or so wizards Chey had not noticed before began tending to the victims, who he could now see were the campsite manager, Roberts, and his family.

"Recognize anyone, Mad-Eye?" said a wizard addressing Moody.

"Didn't see any faces, Dawlish," was the response.

"Who's this?" said the wizard called Dawlish, now looking at Chey.

"Talented warlock," Moody answered. "Cast a wide stunner at the blokes and stopped the muggles' fall like it was nothing."

"That was him? What's your name, boy?"

"Chey McGonagall."

"Any relation to Professor McGonagall?"

"Minerva's my aunt." Dawlish seemed impressed, and Chey was glad not to be recognized again by his six expulsions, though he was sure the man would make the connection sooner or later.

"What happened to those ladies you were with?" Moody asked, and with a pang of guilt Chey remembered Fleur and Gabrielle, still back in the woods.

"If you had no further questions, I was just about to return to them."

Dawlish seemed to contemplate what to ask him, but decided against it.

"No, that's fine," he said, and Chey took off for Fleur without another word.

He found them by following Fleur's scent yet again, and surprised the group of students by morping out of his fox shape in front of them. Maxime clearly had not found them, as Georgieva was still with them.

Catching sight of him, Fleur and Gabrielle rushed forward and hugged him as though he might be taken away should they ever let go.

Having somewhat pried himself away, he announced the trouble was over, and it was safe to return.

"But Maxime still doesn't know where we are!" Jacqueline said, and the other students expressed similar concerns.

"So stick with me until then," Chey offered, and they could devise no better option.

"I'll come too," Georgieva said, and Chey found no reason to object.

While leading them to his campsite, Chey filled them in on what had happened. They said they had seen a green flash in the sky through the trees, but could not make sense of it, and they were now frightened that the Dark Mark might signify its owner's return.

Chey had lit another fire when they returned, and they spent several hours discussing the night's events. Chey also cast a handful of _Rocca Draconis_ spells, creating miniature rock dragons which patrolled the site's perimeter. Gabrielle had fallen asleep in Fleur's arms, and around them more and more people returned to their tents.

Finally, as dawn began to break, a student finally spotted Madame Maxime.

"Well, I guess I'd better go," Georgieva said, and started down the path.

"Wait!" Chey called to her, and caught up after several yards. "Thanks for watching them."

"It was no trouble at all. They were very delightful, and those boys have quite ambitious dreams."

"Yeah..." Chey muttered, thinking they had fallen prey to the veela charm. "How can I repay you?"

"There's no need."

"I'm serious. I owe you one."

She thought for a moment, glancing at the group of students. "The girl named Fleur. You two are close, aren't you?"

"Pretty close, yeah."

"Be good to her. That's how you can repay me." Without another word, she turned around and continued down the path.

Chey wondered what she could have meant. How could being good to Fleur be a repayment? After all, it wasn't like she and Fleur knew each other. Perhaps she really wanted nothing, and just told him that to satisfy him. Or maybe she really cared about the two of them.

Either way, Chey could not be sure. If he knew anything about himself, it was that veela are hard to figure out.

He wandered back to join the others, where the students were explaining to Maxime where they had been. They must have mentioned Chey's name, because a look of contempt was just barely visible on her face. Chey was glad the students found favor with him, otherwise Maxime might have expressed her dislike.

"Monsieur McGonagall," she said monotonously.

"Madame Maxime, how have you been?" he replied, testing how she might react to his positive attitude.

"I have been well. Yourself?"

"You know, I'm doing pretty good. I have to thank you. That article you had published got me a lot of letters from old teachers and classmates. Really gave me a chance to reconnect with old acquaintances."

"Nice to know," she replied, still not having shown a shred of happiness to see him again. "What sort of coincidence could have brought you here?"

"Came here to watch a game, ended up fighting dark wizards. Nothing out of the ordinary."

* * *

Author's note.

There's some video news. I have completed an Outlaw Star music video, "In Fate's Hands." There's a link on my profile.

Speculate away: Why do you think Chey was so affected by everyone's fleeing in terror?


	27. Chapter 27, Terms and Conditions

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Terms and Conditions

* * *

"You all right, Chey?"

At the Romania Dragon Reservation, Charlie looked up from his desk to see Chey enter his office.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, with all that happened at the World Cup! I was wondering if you'd even made it out alive."

"Come on, you know me better than that, Chuck. Though the concern in your voice tells me you personally witnessed the horrors. Pray tell, what's your story."

Charlie reclined in his seat, eyeing Chey suspiciously. "You're never interested in other's experiences. You'd only ask if you were sure you had a much better story to tell."

"You know me too well. Still, you go first."

"We heard the screams and split up. Everyone in our group who's of age, my father, brothers Bill and Percy, and myself, set off to help the Ministry. The others, my sister Ginny, brothers Fred, George and Ron, and their friends Harry and Hermoine took cover in the woods."

"Hey, that reminds me," Chey interrupted. "I never did meet Fred, George, or Ginny."

"Stick around me long enough and you will. Anyhow, from what I was told, they got separated, and Ron, Harry and Hermoine were caught up at the scene of the Mark."

"I see. They ever find out who did it?"

"They think it was Crouch's house elf."

"Barty Crouch? From International Magical Cooperation?" Chey couldn't suppress the smile glowing on his face.

"Yeah. Why, is that funny?"

"No, just dripping with irony," he said, remembering how Crouch had publicly denounced all dark arts numerous times in his career. "Anyway, you guys get out okay?"

"Yeah, took off around dawn. No major injuries, only Bill got a bad cut and I'm still sore from the fight. How'd you fair?"

"First thing I did was to get Fleur and Gabrielle out of there."

"Safe bet. How far into the woods did you go?"

"Don't know, we lost track. We did find some of her classmates from Beauxbatons, so I left the girls with them."

"You left them?"

"Yeah, looking back it seems like a dumb idea. But I wanted to go back and fight."

"At what point did you come in?"

"I didn't really stand by and assess the situation. All I saw was bodies floating in the air and hooded figures grouped underneath. Never saw anyone fighting them."

"Then you must have arrived just when they managed to knock us all back at once!"

"That happened? I was wondering why no one was fighting."

"They were tough! That was a real fight we had on our hands. Next thing anyone knew after they got us all, the Death Eaters were scattered, some stunned, and the muggles were safe on the ground."

"Didn't seem so tough to me. All of them got beat by my expanded stunner. First one to recover took a good thirty seconds."

"You knocked them down? By yourself?"

"Yeah. That Moody guy kept raving about it. Got kind of annoying."

"Moody?" Charlie sat up at hearing this name. "Bad scars, false eye, walks with a limp?"

"That's the guy. What do you know about him?"

"Used to be an auror back during the war. Since then, people say he's gone mental. Some call him Mad-Eye Moody."

"A descriptive name if I ever heard one."

"So he was at the scene? I don't remember seeing him."

"He blends in well in low light. But he was there before the game, too. Actually knew the difference between wizard and warlock." Chey didn't think it wise to divulge what else Moody had proved his knowledge of, least of all Chey's wand.

"So I guess you didn't stay too long, seeing as I never saw you there."

"Right. Few minutes after the creeps took off, I headed back for the girls. Maxime still hadn't caught up with the students, so we all hung out at my site. When Maxime finally showed up, the sun was just rising, so I figured it was best to get Fleur and Gabrielle home."

"How'd their parents take the news?"

"I gotta tell ya, Chuck. It must be nice not reading the newspaper. They had no idea what happened."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope. Pretty surprised to find out about it, though!"

"I'm sure. How hard on you were they?"

"That I put their daughters in danger? Surprisingly they were pretty cool with it. Very reasonable people."

"Shame. Imagine if they'd forbidden you to ever be near them again."

"Back home, that's what we call good television." Seeing Charlie's perplexed look, Chey added, "Never mind. Anyway, then I went back to the site later that day and packed up, drove the camper out, and had it and the truck shipped back home."

"Shipped?"

"London docks. They should be in Norfolk in about two weeks, then I have someone there to take care of it."

"For someone who hasn't been in America for a handful of years," Chey heard a calm voice near the door behind him, "you are surprisingly well connected."

"Professor!" Charlie stood up immediately.

"Chuck," Chey said, a hint of anger in his voice, "don't tell me there's a teacher behind me."

"Er..."

"I could have sworn Summer vacation meant not seeing any teachers for months?"

"Alas, you'll have to endure my company regardless, Mister McGonagall."

"Professor Dumbledore, what are you doing here?" Charlie asked, and Chey turned finally looked behind him to find it was indeed the headmaster from Hogwarts he had met a year and a half prior. "Is something the matter?"

"An excellent question, Mister Weasley," said the aging wizard. "But sadly, everything is fine, otherwise my entrance would have been far more dramatic. I've only come to offer Mister McGonagall an opportunity."

Worried he might be roped into attending another year at a school where he could learn nothing more, Chey summoned in his mind every excuse to get out of it he could think of. Everything from not wanting to waste time to a sick relative was at the ready. Even if it took all night, he was going to talk the old wizard out of it.

"This coming term, we'll be cancelling the inter-house Quidditch Cup at Hogwarts," Albus started, and Chey recognized the stall tactic he himself had used before. "In place of it, Hogwarts will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament, and Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be competing as well."

"And that means what to me?"

"Traditionally," he continued as though never hearing him, "there has always been an impartial mediator appointed. Though the position never holds the glamor that comes with the status of the champions or judges, the mediator is always an important role."

"How so?"

"By creating a barrier between judges and champions, he or she ensures judging is fair."

"You still haven't said what this has to do with me."

"I'm offering you the position, Mister McGonagall."

"And right away I see a problem."

"Is that so?" The wizard seemed amused, and smiled at Chey's observation.

"I've attended both Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. There's no way I could be impartial."

"On the contrary, young master of illusions. You could quite easily be the very definition of 'impartial.'"

"I can't see how."

"You're already free from allegiances of any of the competing nations. All you would have to do is attend Hogwarts."

There it was. Chey knew the old man had an angle, and it finally came out.

"Minerva put you up to this?" Chey asked him.

"Not in the slightest. In fact, she advised against my asking you."

"I'm sure," Chey snapped back. "Sorry, but I'm done with school."

"Yes, your aunt did tell me of your plan to study on your own."

"So why bother?"

"Because there is a host of benefits that arise from a year at Hogwarts."

"Alright, I'll humor you. What benefits might they be?"

"Hogwarts has the world's most complete collection of magical literature."

"Second to the Library of Congress's section on sorcery," Chey corrected him.

"Of course," Albus agreed. "However, I don't think the curators are all too willing to grant you unrestricted access like I am."

Chey thought it over, and realizing full access to the second most complete magical library on earth wouldn't be too bad, said, "I'll give you that."

"Second," Albus went on, "your appointment to the position of the Triwizard Mediator may very well offset your recent run of bad press."

"That would have been a good incentive had that issue even bothered me."

"So we are of the same mind! Neither of us bears much by what the public thinks of us!"

"I wouldn't be so sure," Chey said, and the wizard recoiled slightly in surprise. "I have a feeling this out-of-the-blue proposal has less to do with your needing a mediator, and more to do with the furthering of your image as a giving and caring individual."

"What are you talking about, Chey?" Charlie finally spoke.

"I'm saying that in the eyes of the people, what would look better than offering a seventh chance to a unanimously deemed screw up? This is about your image, not your tournament."

Albus did nothing but smile, and Chey couldn't tell if it was amusement at Chey's observation or laughter at an ill advised assumption. When he finally spoke, it was with a very light tone.

"You are as skeptical as your aunt warned me. I assure you, my intentions have nothing to do with my public image. Though if I am seen in a kinder light as a result, let it be so."

"First," Chey replied, "that's one hell of a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one. Second, I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume you're trying to say your intentions are beyond self-serving."

"And you would be correct."

"But flattery, a large library, and a straightforward attitude aren't enough."

"Durmstrang and Beauxbatons," the professor carried on as though never hearing Chey's last comment, "will be sending delegations to Hogwarts, comprised of students who are selected to a shortlist."

"You got a point to this?"

"There's a possibility that, while enrolled at Hogwarts, you'll encounter some of your friends from previous schools."

Could this guy read minds? It was as though he knew just what to say to get Chey into his school.

But the opportunity to see Fleur again without having to sneak past Maxime? Now that was tempting, and part of him wanted to accept the old man's proposition right away. There was no question she'd make the shortlist, what with her standing as the top student, and surely Viktor, Karkaroff's new star Quidditch player, would compete in this tournament. He could see his friends anytime he wished if they came.

On the other hand, was it really worth it to deal with Maxime and Karkaroff again? And he swore he was done with school. He'd learned all anyone could teach him, and anything further he'd have to discover for himself. Besides, he might not even need the Hogwarts library. Perhaps he'd impressed someone in the Department of Sorcery enough to grant him access to the Library of Congress. All this, and there was no guarantee Fleur and Viktor would be there.

But even the possibility of seeing her again...

"If I'm to accept," Chey said, thinking up his deal breakers, "I'd need a few more small incentives."

"Such as?"

"Just a few privileges."

"Understandable."

Chey couldn't believe his luck. He hadn't expected the old man to be so yielding. He quickly added a few things to his list.

"First, I'm not entirely crazy about the uniform. The black cloak is good, but the shirt and tie is too reminiscent of a prep school. Being able to wear a t-shirt and jeans would be nice."

"Agreed. Anything further?"

"Second, I hear Hogsmeade is nice, but not so much when it's crowded, so I'd like permission to visit anytime I want."

"Very well. Term starts-"

"I wasn't done yet," Chey interrupted, and Albus was taken aback. "Third, I've always made an entrance everywhere I go. So you'll need to make sure that path can handle four tires holding two thousand pounds total. Fourth, and I'm not holding my breath on this one, someone's gotta get me a map to the place."

"Is there anything else?"

Chey thought it over, wondering how much else he could get away with. Then, remembering a certain clause in the American Constitution, said "Yeah. I reserve the right to ask for a few things later as I think about them."

"Very clever. Five sounds fair, don't you think?"

"Fair indeed."

"Then we are in accord?"

"I think so."

"Wonderful," came a voice that could only belong to Minerva, as she entered the open door carrying a torn and patched witch's hat. "Now to have you sorted."

"What?"


	28. Chapter 28, Out of Sorts

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Out of Sorts

* * *

"Yes, sorted. The Sorting Hat will determine which house you'll be in."

"Say who now?"

"As a student, Chey, you'll be a member of one of four houses, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and my own, Gryffindor. This Sorting Hat will decide, as it does for all Hogwarts students."

"I'm afraid to ask how."

"It's quite painless. It's placed on your head."

Chey took a look at the mangy old hat, and drew back a step.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Something wrong?" Albus asked.

"I'm not putting that thing on my head. I have no idea where that's been!"

"If it's any comfort, it spends much of the year on a shelf in my office."

"Shelves get dusty."

"Stop complaining, Chey," Minerva told him, and dropped the hat on his head. Immediately, he heard a whisper in his ears.

"Interesting. Very interesting. Definitely plenty of talent, there's no doubt about that. Yet rather than show the world, I sense a desire to blend in with others. And a very sharp mind, yes! Though rather than run from danger, you embrace it. Curious, very curious. I can honestly say I've never seen someone like yourself. But this begs the question...Where do you belong?"

The voice seemed to think it over some more, and after what seemed like several minutes, started whispering again.

"I see you've inherited your bravery from your father, yes? And your mother must have been very wise indeed, while this talent you hold is your own. Yet you hold all three in high regard. So very difficult..."

Another pause, and it continued.

"Never in my thousand years of existence have I met someone quite like you. You are intelligent, proud of who you are, talented beyond what others see, and danger is but a small obstacle for yourself. I did recently sort a boy with a balance of traits, though not to the caliber you have. Perhaps it's best to place you with like-minded people?"

Tired of listening to it talk and eager for it to make a decision, Chey told the voice, "Pick something, will ya?"

"Very well then, you shall be in Gryffindor. I worry, though, for such high capacities of these traits have in the past given way to dangerous people. But be warned: balance is necessary, yes, but so is restraint."

"Whatever." And the hat was lifted off his head. "Are we done now?

"Not quite," Albus said. "I'd like you to stop by Hogwarts tomorrow so we may inform the Minister of your appointment."

"Shouldn't he know already?"

"I merely informed him I had someone eligible in mind."

"Remind you of anyone, Minerva?"

Indeed, Dumbledore's actions reminded Chey strongly of his own transgressions. Half-truths and quasi-misleading statements seemed abound in this man's life. Immediately apparent was Dumbledore's mistrust of England's magical government. Chey heard from Charlie several details about the tension between the Hogwarts headmaster and British Minister of Magic.

"You hid information from the Ministry, Professor?" Charlie finally chimed in.

"In a word, Mister Weasley, yes."

"Why?"

"If you were the minister, would you permit Mister McGonagall to be involved in an event such as the Triwizard Tournament?"

"I suppose that makes sense," Charlie said with understanding, and Chey couldn't help but give him a look of indignation.

"I don't mean to attack your name, Mister McGonagall," Albus said, seeing Chey's expression. "I only meant to illustrate the closed mind of Cornelius Fudge."

"I'll let it slide this time," Chey said. "Now if you're done here, I have some things to take care of." Without waiting for a reply, Chey left the discussion and exited the door.

He walked across the driveway, and only when he reached his own door did he realize he had just done what he'd swore he never would: he had agreed to attend his aunt's school. Did his word suddenly become meaningless?

Entering his own office, he looked at the large stack of papers organized in his "everything-in-some-sort-of-place" filing system. Right on top was the reported findings by the investigation of MacElroy's death. As expected, it was full of bureaucratic double-speak. After another moment of looking through the document, he figured they came to the conclusion that no one in the top ranks was to blame, and it recommended that senior handlers should be more mindful of who is present during dangerous situations.

Even if he did agree to go to that school, what did it prove? Is he a slave to his aunt's will? After all, he had refused to take the O.W.L.s, but Minerva had the official ambush him. And this Dumbledore character. Why was he so likable, even now that Chey was thoroughly annoyed with him? Looking back on the conversation, he remembered thinking about his friends, and the possibility of seeing them again. Was that all? Chey had merely changed his mind as a result of new information?

Needing a laugh, Chey looked toward the wall behind his desk, where a framed copy of the newspaper article describing his life's story had been hung by him for just that purpose. There was just no denying the accuracy of its statements, and one could not help but admire the work they put into defaming him, even if it had been for naught as he could easily perform any public service that would erase from memory a hundred such articles. He had already read it several times over, and he now recalled the things Fleur had said in his defense. She really did care about him.

Charlie entered the room, a bemused look about him.

"That's it," he said. "You're a hypocrite."

"How so?" came Chey's response.

"Just how many times did you say you'd never attend Hogwarts?"

"Several. I used to keep track, but lost count after thirty-seven."

"And now look where you're going! You're a textbook case of hypocrisy!"

"Whatever." Chey decided there was no point arguing if his opponent had only one case as evidence.

"And twice a hypocrite, because you always complain about other's hypocrisy!"

Two cases of evidence, however, was a challenge he couldn't pass up.

"Gotta prove you wrong there, Chuck. Hypocrites preach one thing and do the opposite. I never told anyone to avoid that school."

"But you said you'd never go to that school!"

"That just makes me a walking contradiction. Now that we've established I'm not a hypocrite the first time, that means I'm not a hypocrite the second."

"Ever considered getting into politics, Chey?"

"Not a chance of that. No matter who you are or where you stand, half the world hates you. Not for me."

"I thought you didn't care what people thought of you."

"Again, I'm a walking contradiction. Now I gotta make a few contacts with some of my connections across that big lake you call an ocean, so if you'll excuse me?"

* * *

"Good to see you made it, Mister McGonagall."

Dumbledore's office reminded Chey strongly of his own. A multitude of things, all seemingly of different origins, were scattered around the room, albeit in a much more organized fashion. On the walls were portraits of what Chey assumed to be former headmasters to the school.

"So where is this guy I'm supposed to be introduced to?"

"On his way. Please, have a seat. Help yourself to some licorice snaps."

Chey looked at the bowl of squirming black candies, which Chey was sure tasted quite delicious, but...

"I much rather prefer foods that have ceased all autonomous movement," he said, about to take a seat when he spotted a large, elegant red bird sitting on a perch. He walked closer to it, realizing the breed for what it was. "And what's your name?"

"Fawkes has been with me for many years. Rather elegant creatures, wouldn't you say?"

"Well, some may argue with me, but the Roccaverden holds an elegance of its own that no phoenix in the world can hope to match."

"How so?"

"Passivity, graceful curves of their faces, smooth wings. I could go on. It's different from the Opaleye, but still there and far more radiant. Of course, for a ferocious grace, one only has to look towards the Hebridian Black."

"And how many of your coworkers would agree with you on these points?"

"Few, if any."

"Really now?"

"I pride myself on having an opinion of my own and not letting it be quashed by the naysayers."

Dumbledore paused, then said, "That shows a strong will, Mister McGonagall."

The door clicked open, and in entered a shorter man who looked thoroughly unremarkable save for his green bowler cap that looked ridiculous. Chey sensed he was a cowardly sort of man who never engaged in an argument. The man said nothing, only entered the room followed by two others.

The second man to enter Chey recognized. The man acted so stiff and upright, Chey suspected the man was sent through the laundry as a child and someone went a little starch-happy. The part in his short gray hair was straight enough to pass for laser precision, and he obviously engaged in the ritual of highly polished shoes which Chey always found illogical (shoes were the closest things in proximity to the filthy ground, after all). There was no mistaking the almost Hitler-like, narrow, perfectly trimmed toothbrush mustache. This was the man who had sent Sirius Black to prison without a trial: Barty Crouch.

However, Crouch said not a word either. It was the third man in the room who spoke first.

"So, Albus, which corner of the world did you have to go to?"

"Only had to catch up to him, Ludo," Dumbledore addressed the man.

Ludo looked like a former professional athlete who got stuck in a desk job upon his retirement. Indeed he had the build of a Quidditch player, but probably no longer had the body-mass index. His nose looked like it had it's share of run-ins with various hard objects, and his short blonde hair and rosy complexion gave the impression of a cliche schoolboy who only grew up physically.

Chey was still standing near Fawkes, just outside their immediate field of view, so it was understandable when this Ludo asked "When is this person getting here?"

"While you gentlemen had decided to be fashionably late," Dumbledore kindly accused them (as if that were possible?), "the Triwizard Mediator has already arrived."

"For the record," Chey said, stepping into better view, "there's no such thing as being fashionably late. One can only be on time or unprofessional." He was sure that calling him unprofessional would get a rise out of Crouch. However, Crouch entered the room looking grumpy, so it was hard to tell if it worked.

Dumbledore disregarded Chey's baiting, and continued. Indicating the man with the green hat who was first to enter, he said "Chey, this is Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic."

"Albus," the man finally spoke, "he's just a boy!"

"Seventeen," Chey said, annoyed. "Old enough to drive back home and to use magic here without getting a nastygram from one of your offices, thank you very much."

"We'll discuss his credentials in a moment, Cornelius," Dumbledore said, wishing to move on. Indicating the first man to speak, he said, "Next we have Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

_There's a mouthful,_ Chey thought to himself. _You could run out of breath introducing these Ministry guys._

"And finally we have-"

"Oh, I know who this is," Chey interrupted. "Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. You're the stiff who sent Black to prison without a trial."

"Now's not the time to discuss that, Chey," Albus intervened, but Chey could tell his comment had ever so slightly sent Crouch's mustache askew. "Gentlemen, this is Chey McGonagall."

"From the newspaper?" asked Bagman.

"Really, Albus," Crouch at last spoke up. "An American?"

"And as such he is outside any nationality bias, Barty."

"He's also attended the two other schools!"

"And he will be attending Hogwarts this year, so he'll have balanced partiality among all three contenders."

"That is a rather unorthodox definition of the word 'impartial,' Albus," said Fudge.

"But you can't deny its merit, Cornelius," Bagman said, clearly game for the idea.

"Now Albus," Fudge continued, disregarding Bagman, "you've made some unusual decisions in the past and I've been more than lenient. But this is crossing the line."

"Yes, Cornelius, now is the time to discuss his credentials. Mister McGonagall, would you like to inform them?"

"Sure, whatever," and Chey took a breath to rattle off his accomplishments. "I get excellent grades everywhere I go, I hold a Class Echo Dragon Handling license, people like me despite my faults, and a great majority of my former instructors will tell you that my punishments were unjust."

"And," Dumbledore added, "his ties to all three schools will further the message of international cooperation."

Fudge was not quite convinced, but Chey sensed he only needed a little more convincing. "I still don't-"

"He's worried I won't be able to maintain impartiality," Chey said, not really understanding how he knew, "if an old friend of mine turns out to be one of the champions."

"Are you saying you'd forego your friendship with the person in favor of impartiality?"

"No, because my friend would understand the situation I'm in."

"I see." Now Fudge was convinced. "Well, as long as you can promise to maintain an impartial stance, I see no problem with it."

"I'm afraid I do, Minister," Crouch said, clearly still annoyed by Chey's comment about Black. "There's no guarantee, and his record of making trouble should have been all the evidence you'd needed to decide against his appointment."

"First," Chey argued for himself, "my record is irrelevant. Second, it's my understanding that my position is only ceremonial, and would have nothing to do with the preparations. Given that, even if I developed a bias, there's nothing I could do with it."

They all looked at Crouch, who knew when he'd been beaten and said grumpily, "Very well then."

* * *

Early morning mist limited Chey's visibility of the London Docks on the first day of September. Gulls sounded in the distance, while the dock workers shouted to each other to coordinate loading and unloading.

Chey approached a large container ship, and figured the man in the business suit was more or less in charge.

"This the ship from Norfolk?" Chey called to him.

"The chart doesn't lie, sir," he responded. "Box number?"

"Twenty-three-eighty. McGonagall."

"Identification and receipt?"

Chey handed the man a card and a sheet of paper.

The manager looked through his list, sifting through pages and comparing information, his eyes finally resting on the proper entry. "Right then." Picking up the radio from his belt, he said into the mouthpiece, "Two three eight zero to receiving six."

"Rodger," came a voice from the handset. "Two-three-eighty to six."

The dock crane creaked to life, moving over the ship and the many blandly colored containers. Stopping somewhere in the middle, it lowered below Chey's line of sight.

"Not many people pay the extra for both a rush delivery and extra care," said the manager, looking at his forms. "Just out of curiosity, what's so special about what's inside there?"

"It was my Dad's."

"Any reason it had to be here by today?"

"This is just the last possible day I could get it."

"Some one else could have. We're quite lenient, so long as the receiver has proof-"

"I don't trust anyone. That goes double with this one."

"Fine," said the manager, going back to studying his files. "Your money." Chey smiled at the comment.

The crane lifted back into sight, carrying beneath it a large grey container. Slowly making its way towards them, Chey stood up straight in anticipation.

Still reading over his papers, the manager said, "A nineteen-sixty-nine, eh? That's a fine year."

"My dad thought so, too. Bought it new, never changed a thing on it."

"He was a purist?"

"Nah, just liked it the way it was."

"What kind of condition is it in?"

"Assuming you boys did your jobs right, there shouldn't be a scratch on it."

"How does something that old stay that nice for so long?"

"A lot of care."

Excruciatingly slowly, the crane eventually placed the container on the ground a fair distance from them.

"All clear at six," said a voice from the radio, and the manager led the way towards the mammoth shipping crate.

The dock workers began unhooking the large straps that had held the container aloft.

Finally, as though it had been hours, a worker unlatched the doors, and swung them open.

A few of the workers even whistled at the sight of it's contents.

"Let me ask you something, young man," said the manager. "Is there anything wrong with European cars?"

"Not really," he said with a smile. "It's just they can't hold a candle to good old American muscle."


	29. Chapter 29, One Final Grand Entrance

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Nine

One Final Grand Entrance

* * *

The sun had set, though no one would have noticed what with the black clouds covering the sky. The rain deterred anyone from looking to the sky when lightning flashed. A line of carriages traveled towards a dark castle, splashing on the soaked, winding gravel path and swaying in gale force winds.

The last of the carriages had passed through the gates, flanked by winged boars, when a loud roar punched through the darkness. Several students jumped in their seats and whipped around to see what had caused such a frightening sound.

Two lights, level with each other, peered into the near darkness in the direction of the sound. The gravel on the path rumbled as rubber wheels rolled up the path behind the last carriages, and a low grumble continued when the beastly roar was absent.

Another roar, this time closer, followed by the continued, ever present gumble, and some students pulled out their wands. Now the lights had diverted off the gravel path and traveled on the grass, still moving towards the castle.

A third roar frightened the small birds hiding in the trees. The equivalent of an entire flock rose into the air. A bolt of lightning illuminated the creatures, and the light allowed the children their first look at the source of the mysterious noise and lights.

The light did little to reveal it's features, but did allow a glance at the large and black object's shape. Rectangular at the front, it rose around it's middle and tapered off at the back where two red lights glowed in the rain-thick air. A dim light emitted through it's windows from within its center.

The object continued forward, passing the carriages, occasionally thundering it's mighty growl to alert others to its presence. Rolling alongside the path it moved ever closer to the castle. Then, barely in the light of the torches near the castle's entrance, the object turned away from the path, and began to travel in a tight circle.

All of a sudden, it sprang to life, spraying mud and grass behind it as it's back end swung outward. It began to rotate around it's front end, all while slaughtering the silence with it's deafening, beastly roar.

Once, twice, three times it rotated, when it suddenly broke it's circle, and started moving sideways towards the castle, all while bellowing it's thunder and spraying mud behind it. The instant it approached the gravel path's edge, it stopped. The vociferous clamor reduced to a low growl, and the onlookers stared at the mint-condition black nineteen-sixty-nine Dodge Charger with silver trim which was now resting properly in the torchlight.

The car's lights turned off, the engine cut out, and a young man of seventeen with silver hair stepped out of the driver's seat, jingling the keys in his hand, the rain magically avoiding him. He closed the door, and made his way to the castle steps. Stopping just short of the enormous oak double-doors, he said to the drenched and bewildered spectators:

"Nice night for a drive, wouldn't you say?"

Entering through the doors, the most prominent thing in the torch-lit entrance hall was a large marble staircase leading to upper floors. Just inside the doors to the left and right were four giant hourglasses, each with thousands of red, green, blue or yellow gems. The students were all headed through double doors on the right of the hall. Inexplicably, the floor was extremely wet.

"Chey, good to see you made it," came a voice from the double doors. There was no mistaking that judgmental tone.

"I'm here, Aunt Em," Chey responded, almost obligatorily. "You got your way, as usual."

"I beg your pardon?"

"First you made me take the OWLs, now I'm here at your school."

"I'm sure I don't know what you...What is that?"

"What's what?"

"Outside." She pointed straight out the doors, where the Charger was in plain view.

Chey figured there was nothing to say, so he only smiled. She knew he liked that car, but she obviously never counted on him driving it to Hogwarts.

"I cannot believe you brought-" But she failed to complete her scolding, as a large red water balloon streaked between them, impacting the floor and adding to the small flood of water in the hall. Looking in the direction of the balloon's origin, Chey saw floating in the air a little man in a bell covered hat, orange bow tie, and malicious expression. Though he'd never actually seen one, there was no doubt this was a poltergeist.

"PEEVES!" Minerva screamed at the cackling poltergeist as it wound up for a second shot.

Certain this joker would be a problem later on if not dealt with immediately, Chey pulled his illusionary wand from his hip like a sidearm, and flicking it just for show sent a shock wave in the poltergeist's direction.

Peeves clearly did not appreciate the disturbance, ironically because he obviously relishes in his own work, and he screamed as he left the hall, and a few dripping students applauded Chey's efforts.

"Thank you, Chey," Minerva said to him. "I think he's done for the night. Come in and have a seat at the staff table."

"Why?"

"Well...you're the Triwizard Mediator of course!"

"I'm also a student. Besides, if people knew my position, they might try to buddy up for that reason. I'm not into that. Therefore, unless the staff get better tasting food that the students, I'll be sitting with my peers and they'll be none the wiser."

Minerva thought it over for a moment, and finding nothing objectionable about Chey's decision, smiled and said, "Sometimes I forget how much like your parents you really are."

"Kind of frightening to think what my kids would be like, eh?" Chey joked.

"I'd talk longer, but I must fetch the first years. Go on in."

She headed off in the opposite direction down a corridor, and Chey remembered a map to the castle was one of his conditions.

Chey followed the other students through the doors. He was greeted by an overload of activity. Hundreds of students were seated at four long tables, while the faculty presided at a fifth table up front. Just overhead, thousands of candles lit the areas the torches failed to reach, while the ceiling accurately represented the stormy sky above. A handful of ghosts drifted around the tables, some sitting with students, and the tables glittered with golden plates and goblets.

Assuming the red banner (which matched the pin Minerva had sent in a letter asking him to pin it to his robe while at school) indicated the Gryffindor table, and made his way past the other three. As expected, he received some curious glances from his new fellow students, and he surmised many were just wondering if he looked familiar at all. It wasn't everyday (for most) that a new student transfers in for his seventh year.

He scanned the Gryffindor table, not expecting to see anyone familiar, but to his surprise-

"Oh, hurry up. I could eat a hippogriff."

"Not recommended, Red" Chey said, and the trio froze, not quite turning as pale as the ghost sitting next to them.

"You're-" the fiery red-head stammered.

"Hey, Whiskers, Specks."

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked, staring up at him.

"I still have one more year left, and I'm running out of schools."

"So Dumbledore let you in?" Ron asked rhetorically.

"Yeah, he's such a great guy," Chey said, his words dripping with sarcasm as he glanced up at Dumbledore, who sat at the center of the table resting his chin on his fingertips. It was odd that the man always seemed to be looking at a part of oneself not normally perceptible.

"Something wrong?" Hermoine seemed to sense his tone.

"Huh?" Chey snapped back to reality. "Oh. Nothing really worth mentioning. What-?"

A small piece of parchment folded once over was floating not six inches from Chey's face. Taking it from the air and unfolding it, he saw written in a deliberate and even hand was the sentence, "I expect you've declined your aunt's invitation to sit with us, but please allow me to persuade you further."

Chey crumpled the paper in his hand, and looked up towards the most likely source. Dumbledore smiled slightly more for a second, and Chey thought he sensed the wizard's magic recede a little, perhaps to seem more inviting.

"You know what?" he said to the trio sitting at the table. "I'll catch up with you later. I got to see a man about what classifies as 'magically insane.'"

This man has to be crazy, Chey thought as he walked towards the smiling old wizard. He was far too trusting of strangers for his liking.

Further stares followed Chey as he approached the staff's table, but this time he didn't care. They could be throwing their plates at him, and it wouldn't matter to him. All that mattered was figuring out what this old man's train of thought was. Maybe if he could discern that, he could find the real reason he was invited here. There were far better candidates, so why him?

Not bothering to walk around, he stopped directly across the table from Dumbledore.

"I'll admit it, old man," he started. "The decor's not bad."

"Your praise is much appreciated. Now, won't you sit with us?"

"I'm a student, right? Shouldn't I therefore be seated with the other students?"

"You and I both know you are not just a student."

"But a student nonetheless."

"And how could I possibly introduce the Triwizard Mediator if he is seated all the way over there?"

"How can I have an unbiased position in my duties if everyone tries to be my friend upon learning of my appointment?"

"Your aunt did mention you would bring up that argument."

"Aunt Em understands me well."

"And as such, I'm prepared with a counter-argument."

"Surprise, surprise."

"Would you change your mind if I did not introduce you as the Mediator."

"Not really, because without that I would have no excuse to be up here. My peers will wonder why I'm up here, deduce the possibility that I am one of your favorite students, and they will treat me as such."

"You are quite well versed in methods of shaping public image."

"I should be. I have given the world the impression that I am unruly and crass. In truth, I'm not such a bad guy."

"Indeed you are not. And you have done well to give that impression, for even I had prejudged you when first hearing of your exploits."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"As you should."

"And out of curiosity, what was your predisposition?"

"That you were incapable of feeling like you belong somewhere."

Chey had no answer to that. He'd never suspected that anyone, least of all himself, would have made that conclusion. Yet he could not deny the possible validity of it.

"Might I have one more go at persuading you to sit with us?"

"Knock yourself out."

"It is my understanding that you originally wished to study on your own because you felt a school couldn't challenge you enough."

"Still true to this day."

"What if I told you I could challenge your skills like you never have been?"

"I'd be interested."

"Then why don't you sit down and get acquainted with your instructors?"

"Damn you're shrewd."

"Shrewd enough to convince you?"

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Then won't you please have a seat?"

The Headmaster indicated one of a handful of empty seats. There were four empty chairs in total, and Chey presumed one of them (the one next to Dumbledore), was Minerva's. Another empty seat was next to the slick-haired man Chey had met during the Christmas break of his fifth year. Remembering how snide the man was, and how equally snide Chey was in return, Chey's eyes diverted to a pair of empty seats. One was quite large, and he deduced an unusual chair would only be specially provided for an unusual person. Feeling quite ordinary, he looked to the final seat, situated between the large empty chair and a rather aged (and extremely short) wizard, who seemed a tad too excited about the proceedings.

Chey walked around the table, sensing Dumbledore's eyes following him. He took his seat, and almost immediately the little wizard sprang to life.

"You're Minerva's nephew, aren't you?"

"How'd you guess?" Chey asked as a reply, not really expecting an answer.

"Why else would Dumbledore ask a student to sit with the staff?"

"Good point."

"Filius Flitwick, Charms Teacher."

"Chey McGonagall, Class Echo dragon handler, six-time subject of expulsion, and certifiable sufferer from occasional delusions of normalcy."

"That's quite a resume, young Mister McGonagall."

"That's not even the half of it."

"Well, I look forward to testing your abilities as a student."

"And I anticipate a challenge, Filius."

* * *

Author's note.

Wow. I stop posting these author's notes and the feedback just flows. There goes my self esteem. No, no, I'll be fine. (sniff)

And so, Chey is finally at Hogwarts. Whether this year will be all sunshine and roses is yet to be revealed.

Yes. Chey absolutely had to drive that car to school. And he just had to do a donut in the wet grass followed by a sideways drift to do a perfect parallel park. He's just cool like that. Sorry it's not a Caddy, but the '69 Charger was one hell of a car.

I've received concerns that Chey might be too overpowered. Let me assure you that I have realized this. But this is not a story about a boy becoming stronger over time, like the books follow Harry. Rather, it's more about Chey's role in the plot, and his growing relationships and developing interactions with the other characters. I hope this explains it well.

As always, I am loving your feedback. Keep it coming! And to my fellow Americans, a Happy Thanksgiving to all!


	30. Chapter 30, Yet Another Introduction

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirty

Yet Another Introduction

* * *

The doors connecting the Great Hall with the entrance hall opened, and the room's energy, which had been bustling with feverish excitement, became a dead silence. Chey's aunt Minerva was leading a long line of rather small (and thoroughly drenched) children to the front. Minerva and the shivering children came to a stop at the front, and finally, the last remaining people gazing at Chey now rested their eyes on the frightened new students.

Minerva walked away from the herd of first years, fetching a three-legged stool and a mangy and patched old witch's hat which sat on top of it. She placed them in front of the trepidatious youngsters, who strained to see it better. The only one not looking at it was an exceptionally small boy who was wrapped in a moleskin coat ten times too big for him, and he seemed to be trying to communicate with someone sitting at the Gryffindor table.

With little warning, a tear in the hat's brim opened wide.

Throughout the hall rang a clever song about the hat's history. It spoke of the school's four founders, and what they valued most in a witch or wizard, and selected them into their houses accordingly. Chey remembered it had mentioned every one of these traits when it debated with itself where to place him. It then said how the founders devised a way to sort the students after their deaths, by enchanting a hat to think. Wrapping up, it dictated its duty, and the hall was filled with applause.

"Not bad," Chey said, clapping with the rest.

"Every year is different young man," Filius said. "You'd know that if you'd listened to your aunt when you were eleven and come here in the fist place."

"Now that's cold."

Minerva unrolled a large scroll, saying "When I call out your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool. Once you have been sorted, you will sit at the appropriate table."

Chey laughed quietly at those words, remembering he wasn't exactly sitting at the appropriate table.

"Ackerley, Stewart."

One of the first years approached the hat, trembling (be it from nerves or soaked robes), and louder than anyone else could shout the hat cried "RAVENCLAW!"

After handful more students, the small boy drowning in the moleskin coat was called. At that moment, an extremely large man (both wide and tall) who looked like he might own just such a coat, sporting a monstrous mane of hair with a beard to match, sat in the equally large chair next to Chey. He seemed to take no notice of Chey, contenting to watch the sorting. Chey had no firm idea what could make a man so large, but in the back of his mind suspected the man might be a half-breed. The idea was not unheard of, what with Chey being living proof of that.

The children continued approaching the hat with varying mixtures of fright and excitement. Finally, the last of the first years was sorted and sitting at the appropriate table. Minerva picked up the had and stool, carrying them off to the side.

Dumbledore stood up, and in a deep, calm voice said, "I have only two words to say to you. Tuck in."

"Hear, hear!" came two voices in the direction of the Gryffindor table, and instantly a feast appeared on all the tables.

"Not quite five star," Chey said, "but you can't beat the presentation."

Only now had the large man next to Chey noticed him.

"Why, hello 'ere," he said in a heavy Scottish accent. Jokingly, he said, "Now let me guess: yer the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, aren't yea?"

"If so," Chey replied, "I'm overqualified."

"Ah, I knew who yea were when I saw yea. I'd recognize a relative o' Professor McGonagall any day."

"How so?"

"Yer aunt showed me a picture of yea las' week."

"That could go either way. What was she saying when she showed it to you?"

"Tha' yea were a smar' boy an' talented warlock."

"That doesn't sound like her."

"She tol' me yea had trouble takin' compliments."

"At least you were forewarned. Well, you know who I am obviously. So you might be?"

"Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper of the grounds and Care of Magical Creatures teacher."

"Chey McGonagall. See the _Daily Prophet_'s latest smear article on me for my résumé."

The noise level had not risen quite as much during the feast as Chey had expected. Clearly, the food was that good. It wasn't the French cuisine Chey had enjoyed last year (even if there was no bacon), nor the hearty Italian meals from Venice University, and it certainly wasn't backyard barbeque like they had on warm weekends back in the States. That wasn't to say the food wasn't excellent, only different. And it definitely hit the spot after a day of driving in the England countryside.

"So how'd yea fancy yer train ride up, Chey?" asked the man who Chey just realized was sized to a caliber equal to Madame Maxime.

"Oh, I didn't take the train," Chey replied.

"How in blazes did yea get here, then?"

"It's parked just outside the main entrance."

"Minerva told us you made quite an entrance at your last school," Filius joined in the conversation.

"Yeah, well showing up riding on the back of an Opaleye tends to leave an impression."

"Yea rode in on a dragon? That had to be a sight!" Hagrid exclaimed.

"I imagine it was," Filius added.

"Let me put it this way:" Chey started to elaborate. "Several eyewitnesses reported forgetting why they were there in the first place, so I'd say it was impressive."

"Was it flyin'?" Hagrid pried.

"Skimming the trees."

"Oh, wish I coulda seen tha' beauty!"

"Just imagine riding it, big guy."

"From a purely inquiring standpoint," came a voice beyond the great man to Chey's right, "how would you compare riding a dragon to riding a broom?"

"To start," he answered the faceless voice, "it's a lot smoother. They're larger, so they don't react to wind currents as easily. Second, if it's a midsized breed like the Antipodean or Hungarian, their wings are larger in proportion to the rest of their bodies, and they don't have to flap so much."

"And what of the larger and smaller breeds?"

"The small ones are built for speed, so they can't carry more than two average sized people very easily. The large ones like Ukrainians are always moving their wings just to stay aloft, and you're not going to get a very comfortable ride from them."

"And what about other creatures?" The voice's owner had finally leaned around Hagrid to communicate more effectively. If it weren't for the fact that Chey sensed none of the trademark charm from her, he would have sworn she was part veela. A second glance, however, told him that only her hair color in the yellow light from the candles had given him that first impression. Come to think of it, she looked rather hawk-like in her appearance. Almost hallow-looking grey eyes and short grey hair which stuck out at all angles made her look like she'd been in the open air a fair share of times herself. "Rolanda Hooch, flying instructor," she said, reaching her arm around Hagrid's great mass.

"Chey McGonagall," he replied, shaking her hand. "I can't really compare them to other creatures. They had a handful of the large winged horses at my last school, but they never really let students fly them. I've heard Hippogriffs lack the grace, but what I'd like to try is a thestral."

"Really?" Hagrid chimed in.

"Yeah. Trouble is, I've never been able to get my hands on one."

"Why didn' yea say so?" he nearly bellowed. "I got me the larges' domestic herd in all o' Britain right in the Dark Forest!"

Smiling at the possibility, Chey told him "I'll have to check that out."

All too soon, the feast had ended. What remained of the bounty had vanished, leaving sparkling clean plates and goblets on the tables. The chatter died as Dumbledore stood up to address them all.

It came to Chey how many different lights this Dumbledore man could be seen in one night. When Chey first entered the hall, the man seemed like just a figure in the room. When he called Chey's attention, he became an annoying old man he couldn't avoid, and later speaking to him was like debating a politician. Overlooking the sorting ceremony, he was almost grand-fatherly, announcing the feast he sounded like a nice old man from down the street, and during the feast he seemed like a regular joe you might share a table with at a restaurant. Now, as he presided before the assembly before him, he gave an air of his actual position of the school's headmaster. Chey now had a full understanding the degree to which they all respected him.

"So, now that we are all fed and watered," he said as the storm continued to howl and pound at the building, "I must once more ask for your attention, while I give out a few notices. Mr. Filch, the caretaker," Chey's eyes were drawn to the corner of the room, where a gaunt looking man in a shabby coat and tail was standing, "has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it." The wizard's mouth twitched, almost like he was entertaining the remote possibility that someone might actually reference the said list.

"As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year."

"Damn," Chey said under his breath. The forest is where Hagrid said the thestrals were, and with Dumbledore's announcement went Chey's hope of seeing them.

"Third, I would like to introduce an addition to the student body. Chey McGonagall has accepted my invitation to study at Hogwarts for his final year. He comes to us after attending six other schools in America, Italy, Russia, and France. I ask that you all make him feel welcome in our school."

That wasn't too bad an introduction. Dumbledore had cleverly skated around the issue of his six expulsions, and saying he was invited furthered Dumbledore's image as a believer in seventh chances. The assembly gave him a mild courtesy applause, and Dumbledore continued.

"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year. This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throught the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy – but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts-"

A crack of thunder shook the walls while lighting streaked across the enchanted ceiling, and the doors to the Great Hall banged open with incredible timing. A hooded and cloaked figure stood in the doorway, leaning hard on a cane.

The man lowered his hood, and with an illuminating flash of lightning Chey saw the deeply scarred and disfigured face of Alastor Moody. Ever since Charlie told him he was considered by many to be deranged in the head, Chey had been wary of the man. He definitely looked to be insane, but the way he spoke to Chey was clear and intelligible. How could a man be insane if he knew the difference between a wizard and a warlock?

Limping, Moody made his way up the hall, a hallow _thunk_ sounding with every other step. He finally reached Dumbledore, and held out an equally scarred claw of a hand.

"How are you, Alastor?" Dumbledore asked of him quietly, perhaps so as not to include the students in their conversation.

"Fine, Albus. Fine."

"I hope the Ministry hasn't given you too much trouble?"

"No," Moody replied, shaking his head.

"Good. Please, have a seat."

Moody limped around the table and sat to Dumbledore's right, and Chey could no longer see him for the other teachers at the table.

"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Dumbledore said again in his announcing tone. "Professor Moody."

Dumbledore and Hagrid applauded, but no one else. The students seemed all too stunned by Moody's bizarre appearance, and Chey wondered if they ever learned it was impolite to stare. Perhaps feeling awkward applauding into silence, Dumbledore and Hagrid stopped after a short time.

"As I was saying," he continued, though all minds in the room were fixated on Moody, "we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

"You're JOKING!" came a voice somewhere in the hall. The tension arising from Moody's arrival had been tossed away and a light laughter filled the hall.

"I am _not_ joking, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore replied after having a laugh himself.

_Another Weasley,_ Chey thought to himself. _Man, they're everywhere._

"Though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar..."

There again, Dumbledore's image changed. From Headmaster to barstool buddy in the blink of an eye. If Charlie only told him now that Dumbledore never got into politics, Chey would never believe it.

Minerva cleared her throat loudly before Dumbledore could finish his narrative.

"Er–but maybe this is not the time...no..." Dumbledore collected his thoughts after that brief scatter, "where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament...well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who do know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely."

Chey took the suggestion right away. As Dumbledore explained a brief history of the tournament, Chey's thoughts diverted to seeing his friends again. He amused himself as the students whispered amongst themselves when Dumbledore mentioned the Tournament's death toll, and laughed silently as the room buzzed at the headmaster let slip the prize money. And like Dumbledore's instant public image change, an uproar filled the hall in response to the age restriction.

"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part of this year," Dumbledore started to wrap up. "I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give you whole-hearted support to the Hogwarts champion when he or she is selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!"

The hall was flooded with noise once again as the assembly crowded the doors.

* * *

Minerva had led Chey to the Gryffindor common room, and along the way gave him the run-down of the rules, to half of which Chey figured he could talk to Dumbledore about getting some leniency.

"And the Common Room is behind this portrait," she said as they came to an animated painting of a very large woman.

"Password?" asked the portrait.

"Balderdash," Minerva told it, and the portrait swung open to reveal the way.

"Tell me, 'Em," Chey asked. "Who thinks up the password?"

Minerva gave him a sideways glance and dismissed his question, unaware he was serious. Upon crawling through the portrait hole, Chey's eyes were assaulted with a blur of scarlet, ruby, garnet and gold colors flickering in orange firelight.

"Your dormitory is up the left staircase, the girls' dormitories are on the right," Minerva continued to explain. "You are not permitted in the girls' dormitories."

"Why? What'll happen?" Chey joked with a smile.

"For once in your life, Chey, take my word for it."

"All right, all right. Doesn't mean I won't try, though."

"Go to your room. You'll find your belongings have been fetched from your car and placed there. Try not to make too much of a mess for the house elves."

"Come on, 'Em," Chey replied as she left. "It's me! What are you worried about?"

He headed up the left staircase, finding the door marked "Seventh Year," and entered to find his roommates already settled. Two had already fallen asleep, while the other three were still awake.

"Ah, damn," said one boy upon seeing Chey. "We're stuck with the screwup."

"Off to a great start already, I see," Chey could only respond.

"What are you talking about?" asked a second boy.

"You don't recognize him?" replied the first. "From the story in the Daily Prophet? He was expelled from six schools!"

"Technically, only three times," Chey corrected him.

"And now Dumbledore's brought him here so he can earn his seventh expulsion," they boy continued. "Always knew the man was a nutter."

The second boy seemed to agree with every word, but the third boy remained silent, merely watching the conversation from across the room.

Chey suddenly had no will to argue the case further, and wanted nothing more than to get some sleep.

"You know the beauty of this situation?" Chey said in his way of ending a conversation. "You don't have to talk to me, and I don't have to listen to you. Let's exploit that, shall we?"

And without waiting for a response he leapt onto the mattress of the four-poster bed he was designated, waving his illusionary wand to close the curtains and let them talk amongst themselves about him while he fell asleep.

* * *

Author's note.

Happy 5000 hits to Spirit of Fear! Well, 5200 as of this posting, but it was only 4600 when I posted the last chapter. Thank you so much for reading, everyone! By the way, that wasn't a sign-off. There's still more Spirit of Fear to come!

Ninety percent of Dumbledore's speech is verbatim from the book, I know. This is about all the book copying you'll read for the next few chapters. At least, until the next super-important event. Don't know when that'll be. Haven't written that far yet.

Again, thank you so much for everyone's feedback. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship. (walks into sunset, fade out, roll credits)


	31. Chapter 31, Exaltation and Proposition

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-One

Exaltation and Proposition

_

* * *

_

Weakness...

_It's never been this bad for a while. Not for a long time._

_It was that mark, I'm sure. That has to be it. It's the only explanation._

_But how to survive now? In my state? So few options..._

_Weakness..._

_Use the boy? No, I can't! I won't!_

_I shouldn't._

_But it's my only option...to survive..._

* * *

Chey awoke hoping it was from a very strange and surreal dream, but one look at the four-poster curtains told him it was no dream at all and he was indeed at Hogwarts.

Deciding that prolonging his sleep was unwise, he pulled back the four-poster's curtains and climbed out of bed, finding the only other person in the room was the boy who had watched last night's discussion quietly. He still said nothing, busying himself with getting dressed and gathering his things for the day.

Chey, figuring conversation was not one of the boy's strong suits, got ready himself. On the way to the Great Hall, he blindly ignored everyone and their stares. He was hungry, and not in the mood for answering their questions. Ever so slightly, he sensed they were somewhat afraid of him. That bothered him for reasons he couldn't explain.

Walking into the Great Hall while it was in the state it was in would have startled anyone. Sunlight flooded in through the windows, last night's storm having blown over. Students were all sitting at the tables, some eating more voraciously than others, while the heads of house were walking the aisles. The ceiling no longer reflected a stormy sky, but instead was mostly obscured by dozens upon dozens of owls.

Chey remained where he was for fear of getting blindsided by one of the swooping birds.

Before fully taking in the situation, a pair of jet-black wings approached him, and Chey found Raithe sitting on his shoulder, his feathers rustled perhaps by last night's storm, with an envelope in his claws. Chey took it from him, and instantly recognized it's floral scent.

"My Flower of the Court?" Chey asked the bird, who cawed in reply. "How the hell do you always know where to be?" Indeed, the only explanation seemed that when Chey left Romania for England, Raithe somehow knew to head to France so he may deliver Fleur's letter to him.

He walked to the Gryffindor table, letter in hand and Raithe on shoulder. Sitting down, he opened the envelope and read Fleur's correspondence.

"_How are you, Chey?_

_I have incredible news: They are reinstating the Triwizard Tournament!_

_Beauxbatons is going to put together a shortlist, and I'm going for it!_

_Your aunt's school, Hogwarts, is hosting it, so if I make the list I may be able to finally meet her! Wish me luck!_

_By the way, did you send Raithe here? He didn't have a letter with him, and he only seems eager to deliver mine to you. Does that mean anything?_

_With love,_

_Fleur."_

Thinking what a nice surprise it would be for her if he was here when she arrived, he decided against telling her he was attending Hogwarts. He'd write her a reply later.

"Glorious bacon," he said, looking at the plethora of foods on the table, as Raithe hopped onto the table to snag a bit for himself. "How I've missed you."

"Good morning, Chey," he heard a disappointed voice to his right. Indeed, Minerva walked toward him. "I trust you had a good sleep?"

"Not really. I had this horrible dream I was attending Hogwarts."

"Welcome to reality, then. Now, let's see what you'll be taking this year." She had, no doubt, his O.W.L. test results in hand, looking them over with a thoughtful expression. "I have a few special projects for you in Transfiguration, and I think you should take Defense against the Dark Arts."

"Why's that?"

"It would be good for you to learn from someone with experience. And be quiet. I don't care how good you are, it would do you some good to learn from Professor Moody. And, Care of Magical Creatures-"

"Minerva, have you forgotten where I work?"

"It's more for Professor Hagrid. This is only his second year teaching, and last year didn't go as well as we would have liked. No other seventh years have signed up, so it's a perfect opportunity for you to help him. Goodness knows he needs it. Next, Professor Flitwick has a very challenging curriculum for students who can handle it. Are you up for it?"

"Why not. Save me from boredom."

"Very well." She tapped her wand to the slip of parchment in her hand and handed it to him. "Here's your schedule, then."

Chey looked at it and stopped her as she started to walk away. "Whoa whoa hey! Only four classes? And no potions?"

"They're twice as long as anyone else's, and I think Professor Snape has enough grief without dealing with you," she called back. "That should keep you busy."

"Like I don't have enough to do," he said under his breath, stroking Raithe on the head. "What with that old coot appointing me to this mediator position I'll be busier than a decapitated chicken trying to find it's head and can I help you gentlemen?"

Now sitting across the table from him were two boys about sixth year, possibly identical twins, with fiery red hair and reminding Chey strongly of his coworker in Romania.

"Good morning," said one of them.

"Our names are Fred,"

"And George Weasly."

"You may know our brother Charlie."

"He works with dragons in Romania."

"We come to you with a request."

"For your assistance."

"Fire away," Chey said, chomping down on a mouthful of food.

"We're what you might call the troublemakers," continued the one identifying himself as Fred.

"School clowns."

"Class acts."

"But we can never compare to you."

"C-come again?" Chey said after swallowing hard, expecting them to continue their alternating speech pattern, which they did.

"You see, we've done many things in our years here in this castle."

"Most of them modeled after the antics of Hogwarts's own poltergeist, Peeves."

"Yet try as we might we never seemed good enough."

"And there is no way we can hold ourselves to the standard you have set."

"We've researched your exploits,"

"Studied their patterns,"

"And can only come to the conclusion,"

"That they are the works of genius."

Chey had never heard anyone refer to flooding the ground floor as the product of genius. Before he could say a word about it, though, they continued their back-and-forth proposal.

"We were particularly interested in your accomplishments in Venice."

"The entire west wing demolished."

"No casualties."

"And supposedly no accomplices."

"But after serious consideration of the scenario,"

"We've come to the conclusion that even in the most unusual of circumstances,"

"There's no way you were working alone."

"And you managed to shield all your accomplices from repercussion."

"In short,"

"We come to you,"

"Humbled,"

"And eager to learn."

"We ask that you pass on your wisdom to us,"

"As your students,"

"Your disciples,"

"Your protégées."

"What say you?"

Chey mulled it over for a moment while swigging a glass of juice. Their request brought up painful memories of when he had tried to teach Viktor, Sergey and Nikolay to invent their own spells, and the utter failure to accomplish that goal.

"Listen good, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum," he already nicknamed them. "You can fight amongst yourselves later about who's Dee and who's Dum, just listen right now. I have, in the past, tried my hand at passing skills to others. The first time I tried was a disaster. They had the will, just not the ability. And while all came out of that experiment unharmed, this first attempt at teaching scarred me such that I have only taught one time since, and that was only because she was both persuasive and extremely good looking. Now I'm sure you boys are persuasive enough, so no real problem there. But all things being equal, I'm thinking you two ain't gonna cut it in that other department."

The Weasley boys sat for a moment, clearly unprepared for Chey's refusal, until George (or Fred, as Chey had lost track of which was which, they were so alike) finally said to him, "Please understand we won't take 'No' for an answer."

"How about a 'Hell No?'"

"Won't take any of those either."

"What a shame," Chey said, standing up, Raithe leaping off the table and onto his shoulder. "'Cause those were the only answers I had to give. Seeing as you won't take them, you'll have to settle for no answer at all. See you around."

Chey left them to stew in disappointment, certain that if they were anything like Charlie they would give up.

Leaving the hall with the jet-black bird on his shoulder, he figured he might as well look at the schedule Minerva had handed him.

"Okay then, Aunt 'Em this afternoon," he spoke to himself, "that big guy on Tuesday morning... Mr. Paranoid on Wednesday mornings... the really short Charms teacher on Thursday afternoon and... Kick-ass! Fridays off!"

This left him free to do as he wished Monday and Thursday mornings, as well as Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons. He expected, though, that these teachers had a few extracurricular activities planned for him to fill in the blanks.

"Now, what to do until lunchtime?" he wondered aloud as the students rushed off to their first classes.

"Mister McGonagall," called a voice Chey would soon discover belonged to Dumbledore. "If I might have a word?" the headmaster said before turning to ascend the entrance hall's marble staircase, expecting Chey to follow.

Chey did indeed follow, though in silence for he expected this to be about his position as the Triwizard Mediator. Dumbledore only spoke when they arrived in his office and closed the door behind them. Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, became very alert when they entered.

"I thought you might want a say in how I'll announce your appointment to Madame Maxime and Headmaster Karkaroff."

"Yes, I would like a say in that," Chey responded, feeling Raithe's claws tighten on his shoulder.

"Very well. How would you prefer I introduce you?"

"I'd rather you didn't at all until they show up."

Dumbledore had no words, so Chey tried his best to continue despite Raithe's claws having penetrated his shirt. "Think about it for a minute. You want me to be the mediator. Maxime and Karkaroff will fight you tooth and nail, possibly even pulling out of the tournament, if they found out ahead of time that I'm involved."

"You propose that I don't give them that chance?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, I'll have to tell them something."

"Be as vague as possible. They bought it when it was on an application to attend their schools and WILL YOU STOP DIGGING INTO MY SHOULDER?"

Chey pried Raithe off his shoulder, which was now bleeding slightly. Only now was Chey aware of what was bothering the raven: he and Fawkes were shooting each other death stares across the room and they had both ruffled their feathers in hostility.

"You crazy bird," Chey chastised the raven as he carried him to the open window and let him out. "And would it kill you to get along with the school's owls?" he shouted after the bird.

"Never seen Fawkes act that way," Dumbledore said, trying to calm the phoenix.

"Weird for Raithe, too. I guess smart birds just don't get along with each other. Anyway, where were we?"

"I was about to agree not to tell Maxime and Karkaroff about your appointment?"

"Oh yeah. So, you gonna keep this hush hush?"

"I don't see why not."

"Okay, cool."

"On one condition."

"Uh oh."

"Be so kind as to move your car somewhere less conspicuous?"

Chey looked out the window and could not deny the oddity that was a black nineteen sixty-nine Charger parked on a gravel path outside a thousand-year-old castle.

"Yeah, I guess I can do that."


	32. Chapter 32, Daunted

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Two

Daunted

* * *

"Alright, 'Em. Whadda ya got in mind?"

"I've realized teaching you traditional Transfiguration would be meaningless," Minerva explained when he arrived in her office that afternoon, "so I'll primarily be giving you exercises to perfect your mastery of the craft."

"Talking to an animagus, here. Not much left to master."

"Be quiet. Transfiguration is not about spells, wands and incantations, despite what I and other teachers may have implied."

"Oh, do continue, wise one! I'm so anxious to learn!"

"Drop the sarcasm, Chey. As evidenced by any animagus, Transfiguration needn't require a wand or incantation."

"Kinda figured that already."

"Chey, even you require a wand as it stands now. What you're going to learn is how to manipulate raw magic to accomplish tasks which have no easy incantation."

"Just for giggles," Chey asked her, "why do they even bother teaching incantations?"

"Centuries ago, they were a way to get magical students into the right mindset to cast them. Trouble is, so many failed to rise above using them, and now they're shamefully used everyday by everyone."

"And you thought I was lazy."

"Follow me." She headed out the door, Chey obediently following. They walked down the hallways for a short while, passing two other classes in session. Finally, they arrived at an door leading to an plain room.

"Kinda ordinary, ain't it?"

"Yes, and there are two other rooms just as ordinary, one behind the left wall and one behind the right."

"And that means what to me?"

"I want you to combine these rooms."

"Say who now?"

"These three rooms are to be combined into a single dueling hall."

"And why haven't they been made such before?"

"You weren't here to be told to do it."

Immediately suspecting one of her tactics, he opened his senses to find any trace of something that might inhibit him in his task, but oddly found none. There was no jinx on any of the walls, no spell designed to interfere, not even an oddly shaped frog. These really were just three ordinary rooms in a magical castle.

"What's the catch?" he asked, still suspicious.

"Only one magical act for the entire process, it must be structurally sound as it will be a permanent installation, and no illusions."

"No problem, 'Em."

"And don't use your wand."

"WHAT?"

"I expect the result to look like one seamless room, and that means matching the color of the bricks."

"NO WAND?"

"That's right, Chey. No wand. You must use the magic that naturally attaches to you. You may not amplify it at all."

"You're kidding!"

"Not at all."

"Hold on a sec," Chey said, the dawn of realization having shone upon him. "This is a lesson in humility. You don't think I can do this!"

"I do expect you'll have difficulty-"

"You willing to bet on that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What are you willing to wager I won't get this figured out?"

She smiled, saying "Oh, I expect you'll solve it. Just not before the month is over."

"A month?" Chey said, feeling insulted. "Plenty of time! Now, what's my incentive to figure it out sooner?"

"What do you think about no curfew?"

Now there was an enticing thought. Not that a curfew ever stopped Fleur and him from sneaking out at Beauxbatons. But it would be nice to not be breaking any rules for once.

"Deal!" he said without giving it much further thought.

"Agreed," she said turning to leave. "And remember: no wand!"

With that, she had locked the door behind her, perhaps to both ensure he wasn't disturbed and that he couldn't sneak to the library to research a solution.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, let's see."

It was a tremendous task indeed. The exclusion of his illusionary skills was certainly a deviation from how he normally worked on such projects, but it wasn't too big a challenge. To make it structurally sound also meant he couldn't use magic to support it, since spells aren't normally permanent. And making it seamless was child's play for him.

But two things made it far more difficult. It had to be one single act of magic, and he couldn't use his wand. Individually, these were molehills somewhat easily passed, but they combined to create a mountain of a problem.

He had never performed an act of magic this large on his own before. The most he had done without a wand was the Illusionist's Aura, a far cry from transfiguring three rooms into one. Being honest with himself, he really had little confidence he could pull it off.

But perhaps she wouldn't know he'd used a wand?

* * *

"All done, 'Em," he said after a few hours.

Indeed he was done. The walls separating the rooms were gone, and the rafters had been realigned such that they would support the weight of the floors above. It all looked as though it had always been like this.

"Very good, Chey," she said. "A fine example of what the final result should look like."

"Aw, shucks, 'Em."

Minerva then pulled out her wand, and touching it to his right arm said "_Priori Incantatem_."

Ghostly images of bricks appeared, which then began to move about the room in exactly the fashion the real bricks had done when Chey had rearranged them not an hour ago.

"A nice try, Chey," she said with a smile, whisking away the spectral building materials with a wave of her wand. "But you should know better than to underestimate me. I trust you won't be up out of bounds, else I shall take twenty-five points from Gryffindor."

Chey was too annoyed with her skepticism to speak. He really should have predicted she wouldn't be so trusting. This might have worked if he'd pretended to have difficulty with it, but it was too late now.

Minerva changed the one room back into the original three, all the while wearing a very smug expression.

"We'll try again next week then?"

"Yeah, whatever," Chey said as he left the room, sulking all the way.

* * *

Transfiguring the room took a lot of effort. Combining hundreds of severing charms, modified levitation charms, and permanent sticking charms exhausted Chey, and Minerva's discovery of his method drained his last ounce of energy.

He made his way up to the Gryffindor tower, ignoring everyone on the way. He'd barely noticed not having to say the password to enter the portrait hole, as other people were coming out. He wandered to the far table by the window and sat down, not caring that so many eyes were watching him.

Raithe in his ever-knowing manner appeared outside the window, and Chey recalled that Fleur's letter was still in his pocket. He opened the window to let him in, only to see a saker falcon flutter in a few seconds later.

"Well, you look awfully familiar," Chey said to the bird, as it looked very much like the one that had delivered Viktor's letter to him after Maxime's scathing article. Indeed, the falcon had a letter for him, and confirming Chey's suspicions.

"_I'd start by asking if you made it out of the World Cup in one piece, but I already know you're fine. It would have to take more than that to take you down, Chey._

_I'm sure you know by now, but Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang are reviving the Triwizard Tournament._

_Naturally, Karkaroff wants me to participate. Ever since I started winning Quidditch matches, he's been trying to be my best friend. I'm sure you understand how annoying that can be._

_But after all the excitement of the World Cup, I think I'd rather have a quiet year. Trouble is, I doubt Karkaroff would let me._

_I'm sure you have an idea of two on how to change his mind?_

_Viktor."_

"Looks like Viktor's not enjoying the limelight too much," Chey said to himself, hearing yet more people enter the common room. Looking up, Chey saw these two people were Charlie's brother Ron and his friend Harry, the two of them chatting excitedly with wide smiles on their faces.

"And did you see his face when McGonnagal changed him back?"

"Yeah, that was brilliant!"

"Hey Red! Specks!"

They stopped short, and exchanged glances before approaching him.

"You're...Chey, aren't you?" Harry asked. "Professor McGonagall's..."

"I'm her nephew."

"But you're nothing like her," Ron noticed.

"How fortunate."

"So is she actually nice to you?"

"Not really."

"Why are those birds on the table?" Harry asked, clearly full of questions that evening.

"The raven here is mine. The falcon belongs to a friend of mine back in Russia."

"Russia?"

"Durmstrang."

"Durmstrang is in Russia?"

"Yeah, but they like to keep hush-hush the exact location. So, what was so damn funny?"

"Professor Moody turned Malfoy into a ferret!" Ron proclaimed.

"Malfoy? I've heard that name before."

"He's a total git, if that helps."

"Hey, ain't there a Lucius Malfoy who keeps showing up at charity events?"

"That sounds like him," Harry said.

"Yeah, I figured a guy doing that much charity work had to be shady."

"Where do you get that idea?"

"Compensation. See it in the aristocracy all the time. The most charitable people almost always have something to hide. So, not a fan of this Malfoy kid, are ya?"

"Exactly."

"He and Harry have been at odds since they met," Ron explained.

"What'd he do?" Chey asked, eager to know what could spawn such animosity.

"He's arrogant, he's crude, and he's a sniveling slimy rat!" came a voice from across the room, which further investigation revealed it was the third member of the trio, Hermoine. "What more do you need?"

"You know, I was just wondering where you were."

"The library," Ron answered for her.

"Ah. So if he and Specks are at wit's end with each other, why are you so steamed?"

"He tried to hex me on my way back, then started chanting 'Mudblood, mudblood, mudblood!'"

"Wow," Chey could only react. He'd never really heard of that term being used in malice before. "You guys still use that word?"

"He does. Just about everyone else has grown up."

"Hold up a sec," Chey said as he realized the connection. "You're non-magical descent, Whiskers?"

"What about it?" she said with a haughty indignation he'd only seen in Fleur when she was ever confronted with the likelihood she couldn't accomplish something.

"Nothing. Just goes to show those things don't matter, don't it?"

"Yeah, Hermoine," Harry chimed in. "I mean, you're the top student here. Malfoy shouldn't bother you."

"I suppose." She sighed, and changed the subject to something more pleasant. "So, Chey, how was your first day at Hogwarts?"

"I gotta say," he began, then finding nothing better to describe it, said, "this country is freakin' bizarre."

"It is not!" Ron interjected.

"Think about it: you guys live in total isolation from the rest of the population, you're about half a century behind in technological leaps, and it's always cold and damp."

"So what?"

Chey realized from the start he was beaten. In all his experience, he'd never really found a solid counter-argument to "so what."

"Never mind. Don't know why I bothered."

"What classes are you taking?" Hermione asked.

"Hang on a sec," Chey said, digging in his pocket for the schedule, for he'd already forgotten. "Okay, there's Transfiguration with Aunt 'Em, Creatures, Defense, and Charms."

"What? Only four classes?"

"Ron, sixth and seventh years don't have to take every class," Hermoine explained, possibly for the third time. "But why only four, Chey?"

"Just because it's only four doesn't mean it'll be a breeze," Chey rationalized. "Just Aunt 'Em's class today was hard as nails."

"What did you do?" Harry asked.

Chey sighed, remembering he was exhausted. "She wants me to merge three classrooms into a single dueling hall."

"Well, that doesn't sound so bad," Hermoine said.

"It's gotta be a single act of magic and I can't use my wand."

The three fourth years were stunned.

"Has she gone mental?" Ron posed rhetorically.

"In theory it's possible," Chey divulged. "Just a matter of implementing said theories in a way that's practically possible. I have until the end of the month to figure it out."

"Why the end of the month?" Harry asked, definitely not run out of questions yet.

"I solve the puzzle by then, and curfew no longer applies to me."

"Well that's something to work towards," Ron commented.

"Yeah, and it'll have to wait 'till tomorrow. I'm tired as hell, so I guess I'll catch up with you guys in the morning." He stood up, and Raithe and the falcon took off out the window. He was sure they would stick around for a bit.

"Yeah, all right."

"Sure," Hermoine called after him as he trudged up the stairs, his friends' letters in his pocket. His responses would have to wait until tomorrow. Now he needed rest.

He entered the dormitory to find it empty save for one person. It was the same boy who stood silent the night before, and he was looking over a Charms book. The two of them acknowledged each other, then went about their own business.

"Did you really get expelled from all six of those schools?" the boy asked, breaking the silence.

"Technically only three," Chey answered.

"How much of the article was true?"

"Every word."

"Even your commendations?"

"Yep."

"Then why would you sabotage that?"

It was a fair question to be sure. Of course, Chey had no answer to it. It did seem odd that every time he established a pattern of success, something happened to foul it up. It was a puzzling issue indeed.

Grabbing for any answer, Chey said, "I got bored," and climbed into bed.


	33. Chapter 33, Beasts and Pests

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Three

Beasts and Pests

* * *

"_Hey, Viktor._

_I know Karkaroff can be annoying, but try to put up with it. Here's an idea: consider him your publicist._

_Regarding the Tournament, if I were you, I'd go for it._

_Now before you disregard my advise, hear me out._

_The tasks are said to be incredibly challenging. That said, think back to when you took on perhaps the most challenging task of all: learning to create your own spells at the age of fifteen. Not a thing I could say would have stopped you, Sergey, and Nikolay from trying to learn from me. (You can ignore the part about never managing to accomplish that goal.)_

_Second, this could be good for you. You've already proven you're the best Seeker in the pro league. Why not prove you can do more than play Quidditch?_

_Just a few thoughts. Bear in mind that if you make it as champion, I'll be there to watch. Wouldn't miss it for the world._

_Your friend, the crazy Yank,_

_Chey."_

Chey had never been very good at persuading people to do things, especially now that he wanted to keep a few facts about the Tournament secret.

His letter to Fleur was worded much better:

"_To my Flower of the Court,_

_Go for it! I'm confident you'll do very well in the Tournament! Just remember what you've learned and keep your wits about you, and you'll be just fine._

_Somehow I think you and my aunt would get along. You two could have a lot of fun pointing out my flaws._

_Selfishly changing the subject to myself, I've managed to gain access to a library with a rather comprehensive collection. It's not the Library of Congress, but it'll suffice for my studies. At the moment, I'm researching wandless magic performed by magic users. Ambitious, I know, but a challenge is what I was after._

_As for Raithe, I've never understood that bird. For some reason, he always knows where to be. Just accept it as I have._

_I'd wish you luck in the Tournament, but I know you'll get by on skill alone._

_Still missing you,_

_Chey."_

At least the parts about his access to a library and his field of research were mostly true. He hated hiding things from his friends, but he knew they'd forgive him when they came.

Raithe and Viktor's Saker Falcon were standing on the table in front of him as he multitasked eating breakfast and writing the letters. He'd set up a shield charm around himself to ward off people who wanted to bother him while he wrote the letters. Most notable of these people were the Weasley twins, who obviously hadn't given up their pursuit of his supposed mastery of troublemaking. Needless to say they were quite stunned when they ran into an invisible barrier on their way to talk to him.

He tapped each letter with his illusionary wand, and they were instantly folded and tucked into addressed envelops. Handing the letters to the birds, he dropped the shield and they took off, getting lost in the swarm of letter delivering owls.

Rather than listen to the twins make a second proposition, as no doubt they had one prepared, he headed out the Great Hall's doors.

In the Entrance Hall, the poltergeist from the other night was hunched down halfway up the marble staircase. Intrigued, Chey approached for a closer look.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"GAAAAAHHH!" he screamed, scrambling up a few steps.

"What's that in your hand?"

"N-nothing!" he stammered, hiding both hands behind his back.

"Looked like soap," Chey deduced. "Say, you weren't trying to slick up the stairs, were you?" He remained silent, and Chey took it as an admission of guilt. "Kinda dangerous, ain't it?"

"Gots to do something to make up for you spoiling my fun the other night!"

"Understandable. But did it ever occur to you that you aren't really a permanent attachment to the castle?"

"What are you getting at?" the poltergeist said angrily. No doubt his "in-your-face" behavior caused him to develop a dislike for evasiveness.

"You're lucky the stairs aren't wet. I'd clean that up if I were you." Chey started to walk away, then with a sideways glance, said, "Then I'd get some axle grease from my car and smear it on the handrail."

Satisfied he may have discovered a troublemaking proxy in Peeves, he left the poltergeist to consider his suggestion.

"Hang on a sec," he stopped. He turned to the poltergeist and asked, "Where's the Care of Magical Creatures teacher?"

"Outside, at the edge of the forest."

"Thanks. And there should be some grease buildup under the rear axle."

* * *

"So? What yea think?"

Rubeus Hagrid, instructor for Care of Magical Creatures, held his lessons near his cabin at the forest's tree line. It was a quaint cottage, suitably proportioned for his unusual size. Lazily resting near the door was an enormous boarhound Hagrid had affectionately dubbed Fang, and Chey was staring into a box of many-legged, pale, headless creatures which looked to him like mutated shell-less lobsters.

"What am I looking at?" he asked.

"Blast-ended skrewts!" Hagrid answered with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm.

"Ah." Chey couldn't find any words to respond. "And uh...what?"

"Adorable, aren' they?"

"Well there's a new word for it." It was the last word Chey would have ever used to describe them. "Uh, and why do you have them?"

"They're gonna be the year-long project fer the fourth-years!"

"And...um...do you know anything about them?"

"Well, er, tha's wha' we're gonna learn!"

"Uh, I don't know how exactly to say this, Shaggy-"

"Sorry?"

"The hair? They beard? You don't mind, do you?" Indeed, Hagrid's mane of hair could do nothing but lead Chey to apply him the nickname of "Shaggy."

"Oh. Eh, no."

"Cool. Anyways, I don't know if things work different here in England, but back home we have a general consensus: it's pretty much a bad idea to use a class of fourteen year-olds as guinea pigs to find out more about an unknown species."

"Well, er, when yea put it that way..."

"That's as delicately as I can call it. Bit of advise: try to know a thing or two about the creature before introducing it to kids."

"Makes sense now yea mention it."

"I thought it might. So what else you got lined up for these kids?"

"Ter tell yea the truth, it gots more to do wit' what I can get me hands on at the time."

"For instance?"

"Las' year I showed the third years a hippogriff, I'll probably show unicorns to the fourth years, the fifth years'll get ter see the thestrals-"

"If they can, that is?"

"Oh, there might be a few who can. Professor Dumbledore always says children will always surprise yea. And lastly, then the sixth years get ter see the giant squid in the lake."

"The what in the what?"

"The giant squid in the lake, o' course! Didn't yea know?"

"Not until recently. So hippogriffs, unicorns, thestrals, and a squid. That's it?"

"There be the main ones. I'd like to show the older ones a dragon, but I can't get anyone to let me do it."

"Tell you what. I'll see what I can do about that."

"Yea will?"

"Sure. Just need to check with one of my contacts back in the States."

"Ah, tha'd be wonderful if yea could! But what yea need to check fer?"

"Oh, just some issues regarding liability, jurisdiction, and legal ramifications. You know, the usual."

* * *

After spending the rest of the morning talking about various possible improvements to the curriculum, the bell signaled the end of class and Chey headed up to the castle for lunch. Just to the side of the doors was a small crowd. Chey, being curious, investigated.

There, in the center of the crowd, was the Charger. From what he could tell, it seemed as if Peeves had heard his advise about collecting the axle grease from his car and got an idea of his own. Chey was certain Peeves had thoroughly enjoyed himself while dismantling every single component in the engine compartment and scattering them on the ground..

"Well, shit," was all he could say upon seeing this. All around him, his fellow students gaped at the scene, reading the poem scratched out on the door.

"Pity, pity, you messed with Peevesy. Should have know he is quite sleazy. Now your car's all torn apart, so go home and cry out your Yankee heart!"

"That's a shame, mate," came a voice behind him.

"Yeah, well, it's to be expected of that little monster. Quite the poet, though, wouldn't you say?"

"Never heard anyone call it poetry before. So you came out of the World Cup unscathed, I see."

"What?" Chey turned to see yet another familiar face, and come to think of it the voice was familiar, too. After taking a moment to piece things together, he realized who he was talking to. "Oh, you're that kid who didn't believe me when I said Krum's a friend of mine."

"Still hard to believe."

"Yep, that was you. Whatever your name was."

"Cedric Diggory."

"Yeah, that's it. Sure, we got out okay. You know, you were kind of a snot."

"Sorry. I was just annoyed my dad kept holding me on a pedestal all day."

"Ah yes, the ubiquitous internal struggle regarding the actions of the parent reflected in the behavior of oneself."

"What?"

"Made it up on the spot. So your dad's real proud of you, eh? Must be nice to know that."

"Not when it's to the extent he puts it. It gets annoying, really. Goes on and on about how I 'beat the great Harry Potter at Quidditch.'"

"Potter? Who's...hold on. Fourth year, black hair, glasses?"

"Gryffindor, yeah. We're both Seekers."

"Specks did seem the type. He any good?"

"I think so. We only won on a technicality."

"Which technicality might that be?"

"He fell off his broom."

Chey tripped over his thoughts for a moment. "Wait, how can he be good if the guy fell?"

"There was a bad storm, and Dementors swarmed the stadium."

"Okay, then it's excusable." Chey knew only too well the devastating effects Dementors could have. He was surviving proof of it.

"This is your car, right?" Cedric asked, indicating the dismantled muscle car.

"Yeah," Chey sighed, looking at the pitiful sight.

"Shame," Cedric consoled him. "So what're you going to do?"

"Only thing I can do. I'll have to put it back together."

"I'm sure there's a spell that could take care of it."

"Nah, magic would never get it right. Gotta be by hand. Holds together better and I can make sure it's done right."

"Rotten luck, mate."

"Story of my life."

"So I've read." Months later, people were still bringing up that news article.

"As has most of the world. ALL RIGHT, PEOPLE! CLEAR OUT!" Waving his wand he pushed the spectators away, and another flick of his wrist gathered all the pieces closer together. He conjured a shelter for the car, complete with the necessary tools to repair it. "Damn poltergeist didn't even bother to drain the fluids," he said, looking at the parts dripping with oil, antifreeze, and transmission fluid. "There goes my weekend. And probably the one after that."

* * *

"Hey, Chey," Harry called to him at dinner after Chey had spent the whole afternoon assessing the damage to the Charger. "I heard about your car."

"Yep," he answered them. "Sucks to be me."

"How bad is it?" Hermoine asked, diving right into the food on the table.

"Nothing's broken, so I can put it together no problem. But Peeves's literary work needs to be sanded off and the area refinished."

"It was a beautiful car, too," Ron reminisced.

"And will be once again when I'm done with it," Chey reassured them. "Don't you worry about that. I will need to get some of the fluids shipped over here from back home. My dad always used high-grade blends, and I don't think I'll have much luck getting some here."

"The car belongs to your dad?"

"Used to."

"He just...gave it to you?" Harry asked.

"Provision of the will." This stunned them, to Chey's surprise. He'd thought they already knew of his parents' fate.

"I'm...sorry," Hermoine finally said after a moment.

"I get that a lot." To avoid the awkward issue, Chey decided to change the subject. "Word is you're a hell of a flyer, Specks."

"I'm fair enough," he replied modestly. Chey could sense that Harry feared attention for one reason or another.

"A gross understatement, according to one Mister Cedric Diggory, as I understand it."

"Oh, that bloke?" Ron interjected, clearly not a fan.

"Come off it, Ron," Hermoine chastised him.

"Why should I? He's nothing but a pretty face."

"I sense tension," Chey said, hoping to end the dispute with the obvious comment. It worked.

"You any good a flyer?" Harry asked him, breaking the silence.

"In all modesty?" he began his reply. "Fair enough."

"Honestly," Harry asked again, with a gleam in his eyes not unlike what Chey saw in Viktor, "how good are you?"

"Oh, how do I put this?" Chey decided to come clean, though in a cryptic way. "Every now and then, I'll intentionally lose a race, just to prove I'm no cheat."

A knowing grin spread across Harry's face as he said, "That's what I was looking for."

* * *

Author's note.

Merry Christmas to all, Happy Holidays to the rest, and political correctness be damned.

Loving all your feedback, dear readers!


	34. Chapter 34, A Quiet Friend

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Four

A Quiet Friend

* * *

Chey thought it was very odd that during the entire lesson, Moody had not mentioned once they had met before. Thinking about it some more, he rationalized it may have been Moody's way of treating all the students equally. He came to that conclusion only when Minerva had suggested it later that afternoon.

"You had Defense Against the Dark Arts today, didn't you?" Ron asked him at lunch immediately after Chey's lesson. Hermoine had not stayed long enough to chat, only grabbed a sandwich and departed, announcing she'd be in the library.

"Don't you people run out of breath saying the class's full name all the time?" Chey asked right back rhetorically. "Yes, I had Moody's class."

"What was it like?" Harry inquired.

"A lot of introduction," he answered. "Regaled in how dark wizards are smart and you have to be smarter, kept repeating 'constant vigilance!' and demonstrated some pretty nasty curses." His mind wandered to the time when Andrey had cast a torture curse on him. "As if I haven't been on the receiving end of my fair share of them."

"You've been cursed?"

"Couple times. I think one of them might have been 'You shall never spend more than one year at a school.'" The three of them laughed at that, then Chey asked, "So where's Whiskers keep going?"

"The library," Ron answered. "Didn't you hear her?"

"First time I met her, she was in the library."

"Doesn't surprise me," Harry replied. "What was she reading?"

"If I recall, there was this one book on top of the pile: 'Moste Potente Potions,' I think it was."

The boys exchanged guilty glances, and Chey gave them a stare that beckoned they tell the story.

"When was this?" Harry tried to evade.

"'Round Christmas. You guys'd be in your second year."

"All right," Ron relented. "This was back when the Chamber of Secrets was opened."

"That's right," Chey remembered. "Aunt 'Em told me about that."

"Well," Harry continued, "we wanted to find out who Slytherin's heir was. We had an idea, just needed proof."

"Proof you couldn't get otherwise, right?" Chey asked them.

"Y-yeah," Harry said, realizing Chey had justified their actions. "Ron and I used Polyjuice potion and snuck into the Slytherin common room."

"Hold up. Who did you think it was?"

"Malfoy, the sniveling git," Ron announced with a passion.

"Ah, yes. The old vendetta. Go on. Did the potion work?"

"Yeah." Harry told him.

"Really? 'Cause Whiskers grew black fur and a tail."

"She had the wrong hair."

"Ah. She did say something about that. And did you get your proof?"

"No, it wasn't him."

"You sound disappointed."

"Well, I don't want to lie to you," Ron said.

The bell signaling classes rang through the hall, and the students cleared the tables, headed for the door.

"Let's go, Ron. Hermoine will meet us in class."

"Later guys," Chey said to them, getting up to leave as well. "I'm off to work on my car."

* * *

Apparently, Peeves took a lot of pride in his work. Anything that wasn't welded down had been removed, save for the car's interior. For one reason or another, the poltergeist had decided to leave the seats alone. It puzzled Chey, but he wasn't complaining. Reconditioning the leather would have been just one more thing on the list, and he had enough on his plate already.

Fearing that rust might become a concern thanks in part to the Scotland climate, he set about reassembling the engine block first.

After hours of work, he was hardly even a quarter of the way done. The biggest contributing factor was the chaos. Peeves had not taken the time to place the parts in order. As such, Chey spent much of his time searching through the pile for the right parts.

"Little monster," he said to himself in frustration several times. Just short of nightfall, he felt something nudge his shoulder.

Looking over, he saw a black, elongated reptilian face. Pale white eyes gazed at him as he took in the creature's appearance.

Getting up and stepping back, he saw the creature was very skeletal in it's general appearance. Overall, it had the image of a severely underfed horse, though it was all black and large, bat-like wings lazily shifted in the wind.

"Hey, you're a thestral, aren't you?" he asked it, and it stepped closer, it's face level with his. "Yes indeed you are."

Yet there was something familiar about it's presence, as though this creature knew him, but he'd never seen or been near one his whole life. It did seem odd that it would just approach him like that.

"Good to have some company," he said, sitting down and getting back to work. He conjured a few floating lights so he may see better, and carried on the reassembly, while the thestral kneeled down beside him. For a few hours, they sat in silence well into the darkest hours of night.

It wasn't until he saw the lights go out in Hagrid's hut that Chey started feeling drowsy, so he put away his project with a wave of his hand and started to head back to the castle. He felt a tug on his robes as he started his march, and found the thestral had for some reason hindered his progress.

"Now what do you want?" he asked the creature as he patted it on the head. "Haven't got a care in the world, do you? Lucky stiff. You'll never believe this: my aunt wants me to transfigure three rooms into one in a single stroke of magic without a wand. I don't know how I'm going to figure that out. I got to the end of the month, but I doubt it'll be long enough." He then remembered the terms of their bargain. "Hey, I'm still under curfew. And it's late. And you knew that, didn't you?" He could only marvel at the thestral's intelligence.

"Thank you very much for reminding me," he said, scratching the creature behind the ears. "Now it's just a matter of sneaking in."

He looked at the outer walls of the castle. There was no way he could scale them, and even if he could, he had no idea which of the dozens of windows were to his dormitory.

"Gonna have to infiltrate," he said, the hint of a smile crossing his face. "See you around, my silent friend.

He entered the great oak doors and ducked into the corner. Right away, he changed into the silver fox with black tinged fur and took off, keeping close to the shadows. The color of his fur lent itself very well to blending in with both dark areas as well as moonlit locales. By moving quickly in the light, and holding quite still in the dark, he could become nearly invisible.

Leaping up the many staircases went quite smoothly, but upon reaching the seventh floor he had to stop. A mangey old cat was prowling the hallway, and they nearly bumped into each other.

Thinking he could scare it away, he tensed up and growled. His plan failed, however, for the cat arched and growled right back at him quite loudly, hissing menacingly. Apparently, the cat's growl was meant as a signal, for immediately Chey heard limping footsteps coming from around the corner.

"What is it, Mrs. Norris?" came an old and spiteful voice, and lantern light began to illuminate the hall.

Chey panicked. To be spotted like this would not be beneficial to his situation. Certainly, this cat worked closely with whoever was coming down the hall, and no doubt they would investigate the scene so he couldn't hide. But if he ran away, the cat would follow!

An insidious laugh pierced the darkness from the opposite direction, followed by the clattering of steel. Taking a gamble, Chey dove for the shadows and remained still as the footsteps came ever closer.

"PEEVES!" cried the owner of the footsteps, who continued past Chey in the direction of the noise. "NOT THE ARMOR AGAIN! I SWEAR, I'LL HAVE YOU OUT FOR THIS ONE!"

Could it be the poltergeist actually had a use? Only hours before Chey had been cursing Peeves in words he would never use in polite company. He almost wished he could take back what he'd said earlier about the troublemaker.

The rest of the way back to the common room was uneventful, and he managed to say the password just as the woman in the portrait was dozing off.

He found the common room to be empty, as expected. He was about to head upstairs when a tapping at the window caught his attention.

"Damn you're one fast bird," he said, letting Raithe in the window. "Here to France and back in thirty-six hours."

Taking the letter from the bird, he opened it to find Fleur's handwriting.

"_Chey,_

_Your answer came so quickly. I hope you allowed Raithe some time to rest._

_Thank you for your confidence. Jacqueline says I'm odds on one of the favorites to be picked for champion. My only real competition is one of my old boyfriends, Louie (who's still furious with you) and Ashley. You remember her, the brunette who kept mouthing off to you during Transfiguration._

_I hope your research goes well. Professor Dufendere, who's deciptively quite knowledgeable in the nature of magic, told me wandless magic is the hardest there is. Of course, that's just like you to take the hard road. I know you'll get through it, though._

_I hope you'll be able to come watch the challenges if I'm chosen. Even if I'm not, I'd still love to see you._

_Still missing you every day, and Beauxbatons seems empty without you. Best of luck in your research._

_Fleur."_

"I'll need luck to figure out Aunt 'Em's task," he said to himself. Then to Raithe he said, "Go ahead and rest up. I'll send her something later."

Raithe cawed in understanding, and flew out the open window. He turned away from the window and started towards the dormitories, but stopped.

Barely visible in the light of the glowing embers in the fireplace was a young girl about third year with intense red hair asleep on the couch. Strewn around her were several sheets of parchment and a potions book. She looked as though she had fallen asleep during the course of her work.

Chey picked up a pillow from the couch and threw it at her. She woke with a start.

"Twelve-thirty," he said.

"Oh, right." She slowly scrambled to collect her belongings. Feeling kind of bad about the rude awakening he had given her, he helped her pick up the pages.

"Third year potions," he said, quickly scanning the pages. "Fond memories. Tried to develop a quick-brew Veritaserum, ended up dissolving the table and everything on it."

"Snape is a bloody monster," she said quite passionately.

"Ouch. Not a fan, eh?"

"Nobody is, unless you're in Slytherin," she said, now shoving pages into her bag. "The man absolutely hates Gryffindors."

"Could be worse."

"No, it can't."

"Heh, heh. You're the last Weasley child I haven't met, aren't you?"

"How can you tell?"

"Red hair, underlying calm demeanor, your whole 'it can't be anything other than what I say it is' attitude."

"Perceptive," she noted. "Ginny Weasley. And you're Professor McGonagall's nephew."

"I sure hope so," he said, "because I'm holding onto all his stuff."

"My brothers Fred and George told me about you."

It took Chey a moment to remember who they were. "Oh yeah, Tweedles Dee and Dum."

"W-what?" she asked in total disbelief.

"Nicknames seemed to fit," he explained. "They accepted them as such."

"Which one is which?"

"I'm letting them figure that out."

"And what would you call me?" she asked with amused interest.

"Well, seeing as you're the youngest Weasley," he thought for a moment, "I'd have to say 'Kiddo.'"

"Whatever," she laughed, and without really waiting for anything, headed up the stairs to the girls' dormitory.

It was only now that Chey realized how vastly different the Weasleys were compared to each other.

* * *

Author's note.

Yes, there have been delays. I've suffered some severe writer's block (and still am), but I've decided to wait it out by going over the books yet again. This has helped me immensely. Before, I had only a vague idea of what would happen. Now that I've got a better understanding of the line of events, I can better plan what Chey will do (and why he does it). Still, nothing's concrete, only putty in my hands (and about six pages of notes so far).

Here's a teaser of what I have brewing in the incredible cranium that is my head. Expect friction. That's all I'm saying. Total cop out, I know.

In the meantime, check out the fun I've been having with Flash. Stop by the Spirit of Fear page on my website (link on my profile).

Again, thank you all for reading and sending me your feedback. I also welcome speculation. Why? Because speculation tells the author the audience is involved. I like knowing I've activated some neurons now and then.

Until next chapter (or whenever I manage to get this block off my keyboard)! Thanks for bearing with me, everyone!

Termite


	35. Chapter 35, New Tension

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Five

New Tension

* * *

Chey arrived in the Charms classroom Thursday afternoon after asking a few people the way, all the while hating himself for not demanding a map to the castle upon his arrival. Upon entering, he found only three other people in the room: Professor Flitwick, Cedric Diggory, and the quiet boy from the dormitory.

"Ah," the short professor said, seeing Chey enter, "that's everyone."

"You're kidding," Chey said rather monotonously.

"Not at all," he replied. "Well then, welcome to my advanced Charms class."

"And what's so advanced about it?" Cedric asked.

"To start," Filius explained, "One needs to score an 'outstanding' in their Charms O.W.L.s, as well as at least 'exceeds expectations' in all their other subjects."

_And Aunt 'Em knew that,_ Chey thought, _and that's why she made me take them._ Oddly, he wasn't angry at her, but proud of her confidence in him, though he'd never say that to her directly.

"We'll be exploring the raw basics of magic," continued the diminutive instructor, "and methods of using magic to accomplish tasks where there is no easy spell to cast."

"No spell?" the quiet boy echoed. Overly unremarkable in appearance, his light-brown hair was incredibly untidy, and his face looked very healthy, like he kept himself busy when he wasn't in a classroom.

"That's right, Mister Bishop. You didn't really think you could have gone your entire life carrying a dictionary of spells you could reference, did you?"

The remainder of the class consisted of a discussion on raw magic implementation, in which Chey was able to contribute greatly. Most of what he said revolved around theory he'd been taught in the United States, as he couldn't very well describe what he knew intuitively. Fortunately, his classmates seemed to comprehend the subject quite well, so they progressed greatly during the class.

Before long, the bell sounded off the end of classes, and the students left the Charms room.

"You're related to Professor McGonagall, right?" Cedric asked Chey as the three of them headed to the Great Hall for dinner.

"I keep getting asked that question," he responded. "Yes, she's my aunt."

"Funny she never mentioned you, eh?" said the quiet boy, clearly trying to rile Chey up.

"Well, she knows it's impolite to brag," Chey sniped back. "Never really caught your name."

"Edward Bishop. Mind my asking why you were sitting with the teachers at the opening feast?"

"Headmaster said it was so I could get better acquainted with the teachers," Chey explained. "But I didn't believe it. I was just tired of arguing with the man."

"I thought Dumbledore might have some motive," Cedric chimed in.

"I was worried you might be another one like Potter," Edward voiced.

"Not sure I follow," Chey questioned.

"Dumbledore's favorite student," Edward lamented. "Him and that Granger girl."

"Who?"

"You know them," Edward insisted, but Chey continued to look confused.

"You do, Chey" Cedric explained. "Potter's the boy with the glasses and Granger's got bushy hair and always running to the library." Still no connections until, "They're always hanging around Weasley?"

"...Oh, Specks and Whiskers!" Chey said after a moment. Upon seeing their confusion he said, "What were their names? Uh–Herbert...Harold...Harry! And uh...something Greek...Hermoine, right?"

"Yeah, that's them," Edward clarified.

"Specks and Whiskers?" Cedric asked, perplexed.

"Nicknames. So, Dumbledore's favorite students?"

"The three of them, yeah," Edward continued his exasperation. "No matter how much trouble they're in, Dumbledore'll just look the other way."

"Damn," Chey said in amazement. "Wish some of my old teachers were that forgiving. But why's he so lenient with just them?"

"Catering to celebrity, I guess," Cedric suggested.

"Celebrity?"

"Yeah," Ed confirmed very matter-of-factly. Then, with sarcasm, said, "Potter's the big hero of Hogwarts."

"Come to think of it," Chey realized, "What's that kid's story?"

"You mean you don't know?" Cedric asked with utter amazement.

"Would I be asking if I did?"

"You're not jerking us around, are you?" Edward echoed Cedric's question.

"Hey, all I know is people look at him different."

"Different how?"

"It's always with either contempt or compassion. No one really seems to truly admire or respect him."

"Well, it's not like he's done anything of merit," Edward mentioned.

"What about two years ago?" Cedric mentioned in an attempt to correct Edward.

"What do you mean?"

"With the Chamber and all?"

"Gonna have to clarify," Chey told them.

"Right," Cedric started. "You're aunt ever told you about Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets?"

"Yeah," Chey confirmed. "Two years ago it was opened."

"Potter's the one who killed the monster."

"Really? How old was he?"

"It was his second year," Edward said. Chey was impressed, and he regretted failing to do anything of merit during his own second year.

"And the year before that," Cedric continued, "he saved the Sorcerer's Stone from You-Know-Who."

"The what from who?" Chey said.

"The Sorcerer's Stone," Cedric said. "You've heard of that, haven't you?"

"It exists?" Chey asked, intrigued.

"Not anymore, it was destroyed."

"Typical," Edward commented.

"And who'd he save it from?" Chey continued his questioning.

"You-Know-Who," Cedric answered.

"Afraid I don't," Chey said. "Who are you talking about?" Cedric and Edward stared at him in awe, though Chey couldn't understand why. "What?"

"You seriously don't know?" Edward asked.

"Seriously, yeah."

"Wow."

"Bloody hell."

"When you guys are done gawking at my lack of knowledge in this particular subject..." Chey said, reminding them they still hadn't answered his question.

"The darkest wizard of our time!" Edward cried. "You don't know him?"

"I'm not even going to begin to explain," Chey said, frustrated, "the ongoing debate on who's actually the 'darkest wizard of our time.' This would be a lot quicker if you'd just say his name."

"H-his name was...V-..." Cedric stuttered. "He murdered loads of people and...his mark showed up at the World Cup!"

"Oh yeah!" Chey said, finally realizing who they were talking about. "You mean Riddle, don't you?"

"What?" Edward asked, seemingly thinking Chey was at the wrong conclusion.

"Yeah, Tom Riddle," Chey continued. "Dumbass kept calling himself 'Lord Voldemort.'" The two recoiled at the sound of the name, stopping dead in the hallway. "What's the matter with you?"

"Y-you said his name," Cedric stammered.

"Yeah," Chey replied, as they continued to stand in the hallway. "So?"

"What do you mean 'So?'"

"A name is a name is a name," Chey said. "Besides, it's not even his real name. We always called him 'Tom Riddle.' Wait, is this why Dumbledore likes Specks? Because he beat a guy who was already dead?"

"No," Edward answered. "It's probably got more to do with Potter's story."

"What story?"

"You-Know-Who tried to kill Potter when was a baby," Cedric explained, "but he survived and You-Know-Who died."

"So if he's dead," Chey wondered, "how'd he try to take the Sorcerer's Stone?"

"I don't know the details," Cedric told him. "You'd have to ask either Potter or Dumbledore. Some say You-Know-Who never really died."

"Yeah, yeah. Speculation abound," Chey tactfully dismissed Cedric's comment. "So Riddle tries to kill baby Specks and fails, right? How's that work?"

"No idea," Edward said. "I suppose something made You-Know-Who's killing curse backfire, and Potter came out of it with just a scar."

"Specks beat the _Avada_ save for getting a scar?" Chey wondered aloud. "What the hell?"

"Chey, a word."

Minerva stood in the hallway facing the three of them, a completely passive expression on her face.

"I'll catch up later, guys," Chey told them.

"Right." Edward said.

"Later," added Cedric as the two continued to the Great Hall.

"So what's up, 'Em?"

"Tomorrow the Headmaster would like to-"

"Chey!" came Ron's voice from down the hall. He was out of breath and looked very worried. "It's your car...Peeves is-"

But he had hardly a chance to finish his sentence. Upon hearing the words "car" and "Peeves," Chey assumed the worst and immediately took off, Ron not far behind. He shot past the many students meandering about the hall, passing even Cedric and Edward, who questioned his hurry, though he gave them no answer.

He reached the entrance hall, and jumped down the entire flight of marble steps, his feet screaming in agony when he landed. But that didn't matter. All that mattered was giving the accursed menace that was Peeves his due punishment.

Running out the open doors, he saw a small group gathered around the Charger, laughing, while Peeves was happily pouring two cans of magenta oil-based house paint all over the open-windowed car. He had just finished one can, dropping it to the ground, and was beginning again with a second.

"PEEVES, YOU LITTLE SHIT!" he screamed, throwing a spell with little regard for anything but revenge.

Peeves saw Chey coming, and abandoned his paint cans, headed for the castle. Chey's spell impacted the freshly opened can, and it exploded. Its contents sprayed spectacularly on the laughing bystanders. The poltergeist cackled merrily as he sped for the castle, Chey's spells just missing him. He made it inside, and Chey could only clench his fist. It seemed odd, and when he looked at his right hand, he saw no wand. Before anyone could see, he quickly cast an illusion.

"How dare you!" came a voice. Chey turned, finding the voice belonged to one of the bystanders now sprayed by Peeves's magenta paint. "I can't believe Dumbledore wants us to be hospitable to you!"

"It's your own bloody fault, Malfoy," Harry said from Chey's side. "You gits were laughing right with Peeves!"

"Shove off, Potter!" Malfoy shot back, and Chey immediately understood the magnitude to which these two boys despised each other. "I ought to tell my father about this!"

"Really, Malfoy, that's all you ever say," Hermoine mentioned, to the laughter of some of the bystanders.

"Nobody asked you, Mudblood!" Malfoy snapped. He found himself staring at the tip of Chey's wand, just inches from his face.

"I'm not going to tolerate language like that, Slimy," Chey said.

"Nothing you can do about it," they boy said defiantly.

Chey smiled. With a sweep of his wand, he had flipped Malfoy over, landing him in a disheveled heap.

"Oi!" said one of the older students who had been egging Peeves on. He was the least covered in paint. "Pick on someone your own size!"

"I would," Chey said, letting Malfoy scramble to his feet, "but you're not much of a challenge either." A chorus of laughter sprang up from behind Chey, but those in front of him were silent.

"Wanna bet?" he sneered. The first thought that came to Chey's mind was that this boy had a face only a mother could begin to love.

"Easy, Derrick," said one of the paint-splattered bystanders.

"Is that all you Slytherins do?" Cedric chastised them. "Fight like thugs?"

"I've seen street gangs better behaved than you," Edward added.

"Doesn't help that they're a lot of right foul gits," Ron said.

"Do you really want us to get started on you, Weasleby?" Malfoy interjected. "I really don't think your father can afford any more bad press."

"Watch your mouth, Malfoy!"

"And what's your father have to feel so guilty about?" Chey asked.

"What are you talking about?"

"All those charity events, donations. He's got to be compensating for something he did."

"You have no right to talk about my father!"

"I'll bet his dad was one of the torturers at the World Cup!" Harry surmised.

"Careful, Potter," Malfoy reacted snidely, "wouldn't want any Dementors to come after you to make you faint!"

"Come off it, Malfoy. That was a year ago," Harry said, but Malfoy had no response. Chey's wand was once again aimed at Malfoy's face.

"You're just itching to piss me off today, aren't you?" Chey said, while several Slytherins pulled out their own wands.

"What's the matter, Yank?" the boy named Derrick approached him. "You scared of the bad old Dementors too?"

"You'll do well not to annoy me," Chey told him.

"Yeah, America isn't as tough as it seems. Go run home to your ruddy parents, you stupid Yank-"

Chey had enough. Derrick had gone too far. A flurry of stunners and shield charms flew between them. When the dust settled, the two of them were found just four feet apart, wands at each other's throats. Chey's aura flickered ever so slightly.

Slytherins trained their aim on Chey, while the others focused on Derrick in a tense standoff.

"What is going on here?" Minerva had finally caught up to Chey. In response to her voice, the bystanders lowered their wands. Chey and Derrick, however, never budged. "Both of you, drop your wands immediately!"

It took one of Minerva's disarming spells to get them to stand down, as the wands flew to Minerva's hand and the two of them were forced away from each other. The Slytherins shot dark stares at the rest while they walked back inside, Minerva returning Derrick's wand when he passed.

"Up to your old tricks?" Minerva asked him, handing him his wand. Then, looking at it, said, "And I see you've changed the illusion."

"One truth at a time, 'Em," he said quietly so the others wouldn't overhear. "I'm already hiding it's existence, so why hide its appearance."

"As long as you're prepared to answer the questions that arise." With hardly a change in face, she said, "The Headmaster would like you to come to his office tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock," and turned to leave.

"Damn, you're fast, mate," Ron said when Minerva left. "Never seen a shield charm cast that quick! I think you could've beaten him!"

"Maybe," Chey wondered. He was surprised Derrick was so quick on the draw, himself. Had he not been fueled by adrenaline, he would definitely have lost the duel. "Hey, Whiskers?"

"Y-yes?" Apparently, he'd woken her out of deep thought.

"You think a _Scourgify_ will work on this?" he asked, motioning to the mess of paint on the Charger.

"Oh! Um, it should..."

* * *

Author's note.

I feel obligated to explain my absence.

I made a mistake when first putting words to this story. I didn't plan it out. It was before Deathly Hallows was released. I only had a half-paved road to follow, writing one chapter at a time.

The last two months have had me reading the books, doing research, and writing out a (so far) 12 typed pages of notes. Now I have exact dates and time frames, character bios, and more information on the Department of Sorcery (keep an eye out for that).

Nobody likes delays like this last one (especially me), but I feel this hiatus is the best thing to happen to this story.

Unfortunately, this is not the end of the drought. There's still a good deal of planning I need to do, and for the sake of the story I want to finish my roadmap before beginning again.

I thank you all for sticking with it. It's been hard on all of us.

Termite


	36. Chapter 36, Naivete

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Six

Naivete

* * *

"I think I got it all out," Chey said, entering the common room and, seeing Harry and Ron, approached them.

"And Wednesday, I think I'll come off worse in a fight," Ron said, an odd reply.

"Aaah, I was going to have a fight," Harry said back. "Okay, I'll lose a bet."

"Yeah, you'll be betting I'll win my fight..."

"And Thursday night," Chey said, startling them, "an acquaintance will enter the room and clobber you for such pessimistic thinking."

"Oh, sorry Chey," Harry said. "What were you saying?"

"Got the paint out."

"That's great!"

"Still have to reassemble the engine compartment."

"Sorry, mate," Ron consoled him. "Peeves never really goes that far."

"When I find the little bastard," Chey said, malice dripping from his voice, "I'm going to squeeze his itty-bitty neck until his eyes pop out of their sockets!"

"Strangulation!" Ron cried. "That's a good one for Friday."

"What the hell is this?"

"Divination homework," Harry answered.

"You're kidding," Chey deadpanned.

"No joke."

"They teach that bunk over here, too?"

"Yeah," Ron said, "But we found a way to survive it."

"How's that?"

"Make it up," he said, showing Chey their work so far.

"Accurate a method as any," he replied, glancing over the writing. "But aren't these a little over the top? I mean, you really think the teach'll buy this one: 'stabbed in the back someone you thought was a friend?'"

"The woman will gobble it right up," Ron explained. "She's done it before. Trelawney thrives on tragedy."

"Why didn't I think of that?"

"You didn't have this brilliant mind," Harry said, tapping his quill on Ron's forehead.

The two of them continued to devise their horrible doom for the coming month, while Chey marveled at their ingenuity. All their talk of misfortune reminded Chey of the discussion he'd had earlier that day with Cedric and Edward about Harry's life story. The two of them seemed to be rolling with their horrible predictions, so Chey decided he'd ask them about it another time.

Across the room, Fred and George sat huddled together against the wall, perhaps scheming some form of mischief. After a short time, a large ginger cat leapt onto an empty chair, and stared at Harry and Ron accusingly, much like Minerva often looked at Chey on a number of occasions.

"And who's this?" Chey asked when the cat approached.

"Crookshanks," Harry explained, "Hermoine's cat."

"Looks like a small lion," Chey mentioned.

"Exactly what we thought," Ron said.

Chey sat with them, occasionally commenting on the horrible chain of events they were devising. Some were quite clever, and he thought the two of them might have passed for fiction writers in another life.

After what may have been an hour or two, the common room was empty, save for the three of them, when Hermoine entered carrying a sheaf of parchment and a rattling box.

"Hello," she said, approaching them, "I've just finished!"

"So have I!" Ron said in triumphant exhaustion. Hermoine sat down, and took Ron's predictions from him to look them over.

"Not going to have a very good month, are you?" she said in a tone that drawled _you should know better_.

"Ah well, at least I'm forewarned," he yawned.

"So you're aware of their creative license?" Chey asked her.

"Yes, and he seems to be drowning twice," she said, as Ron hastily took it back to change one into being trampled by a rampaging hippogriff. "Don't you think it's a bit obvious you've made these up?"

"How dare you!" Ron shot back, feigning outrage. "We've been working like house elves here!" Hermoine only stared at him with raised eyebrows. "It's just an expression," he quickly covered.

"What's in the box?" Chey asked, thinking he'd changed the subject.

"Funny you should ask," she said, pulling off the lid and showing them it's contents, about fifty badges of all different colors, each one bearing the letters S.P.E.W.

"'Spew?'" Harry asked, holding a badge up for closer inspection. "What's this about?"

"Not 'spew,'" she responded haughtily. "It's S-P-E-W."

"Okay, Whiskers, I'll bite," Chey said. "What could this acronym possibly stand for?"

"It's the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare!"

"Uuh oh," Chey groaned, fearing what might come next.

"What?" Ron asked. "I've never heard of it."

"Well of course not!" Hermoine announced. "I've only just started it."

"Ooh, boy," Chey groaned again.

"Yeah?" Ron continued his questioning, mildly surprised. "How many members have you got?"

"Well – if you three join – four."

"Aw, hell."

"And you think we want to walk around wearing badges saying 'spew,' do you?" Ron said.

"S-P-E-W!" she said, taking an offended tone. "I was going to put Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal Status – but it wouldn't fit. So that's the heading of our manifesto. I've been researching it thoroughly in the library."

"So that's where you were," Chey said remembering she'd been spending an awful lot of time there for the start of the year.

"Elf enslavement goes back centuries," she said, ignoring him. "I can't believe no one's done anything about it before now."

"Whiskers, do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"Absolutely," she said. "And as an American, you should be supporting me."

"What?"

"I think America had the right idea a hundred thirty years ago when they passed their own elf wage laws."

"Oh, innocent Whiskers," Chey lamented, shaking his head, "you suffer from misleading headlines. You haven't read further into the laws."

"And with you as a member, we'll have celebrity endorsement!"

"Hermoine, what are you talking about?" Harry asked.

"Harry, he's a McGonagall!" Hermoine explained to him. "They're an old and powerful family in America!"

"Forget it Whiskers. I'm not going to be your spokesperson."

"What? Why not!"

"Because you ain't got a clue what you're getting into!"

"Hermoine – open your ears," Ron said loudly. "They. Like. It. The _like_ being enslaved!"

"Our short-term aims," Hermoine continued, more determined than ever, "are to secure house-elves fair wages and working conditions. Our long-term aims include changing the law about non-wand use, and trying to get an elf into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, because they're shockingly underrepresented."

"And how do we do all this?" Harry asked, and Chey knew he'd be sorry he let Harry ask.

"We start by recruiting members," she carried on happily, a stark contrast to her tone with Ron. "I thought two Sickles to join – that buys a badge – and the proceeds can fund our leaflet campaign. You're treasurer, Ron – I've got you a collecting tin upstairs – and Harry, you're secretary, so you might want to write down everything I'm saying now, as a record of our first meeting. Oh, and Chey, you'll bring word of our cause to America. I think we'll have a lot of support over there."

Chey could only gaze in wonder at her blissful ignorance.

"What?" she asked.

"Whiskers?"

"Yes?"

"Leave. Me. Out. Of. It. Good night."

"But-"

"No." He left Harry and Ron to talk Hermoine out of her crusade, and retired to bed.

* * *

Chey was woken up Friday morning by a soft tapping from the window near his bed. He initially ignored the sound, but as it grew more insistent, he scrambled awake, seeing Viktor's saker falcon rapping hard on the glass.

"Son of a-" Chey mumbled, getting up to let the bird in. Looking out the window, he figured it couldn't be much past daybreak. "Couldn't wait 'till breakfast?"

"_Not a chance in hell, Chey,_" the letter said. "_I would have figured you'd be on my side about this. Why are you defending Karkaroff? He kicked you out, remember? If you really wanted to visit, you could just come to Durmstrang. What's he really going to do? Karkaroff saw what you did to Andrey. Sergey thinks he's afraid of you, and I agree. There's nothing stopping you from coming here. Viktor._"

"Oh, so you're going to make this difficult, are you?" Chey wondered aloud. He then looked at the falcon, who seemed tired, yet eager to fly again. "What'd he tell you, to rush here? Take a break. I'll send you out when I'm good and ready."

The falcon turned around and departed from the windowsill. It was then that Chey heard footsteps outside the seventh years' room door. A look around the dormitory told him he was the only seventh year boy awake. With a snap of his fingers he was dressed, and succumbing to his curiosity, he followed out the door.

Trailing the footsteps into the common room, he caught sight of Harry leaving through the portrait hole with an envelope clutched in his fingers. Chey followed Harry's brisk pace through the corridors, and it wasn't until he saw a vase begin to tip over halfway down the fourth floor corridor that he caught up.

"Watch it, Specks!" Chey yelled, whipping out his wand and stopping the falling vase inches above Harry's head. A cackling laughter echoed in the corridor, followed by Chey screaming "Peeves! You're gonna get yours, you son of a bitch!"

Peeves's laughter continued, fading as he was no doubt departing the area.

"Thanks, Chey," Harry said, carefully eying the still hovering vase above his head.

"No problem," Chey replied, floating the vase back to it's initial resting place.

"How'd you-"

"Modified Levitation charm," Chey interrupted. "It's all about where on the object the charm is placed."

"No, I mean how did you know I'd be here?"

"Oh. Heard you walking past the seventh year door. Where ya headed?"

"Owlry."

"Well, don't let me stop you." The two started the trek to the owlry. "Letter to family?" Chey asked after a brief silence, immediately kicking himself as he remembered what Edward and Cedric had told him about Harry.

"Something like that." Harry said, hesitating slightly, a hesitation that did not go unnoticed by Chey.

"Well, either it's family or it's not."

"Er, just a friend," Harry answered, forcing a smile. "Not sure my family's too keen on hearing from me."

"What makes you say that?"

"They're the most horrible people in the world."

"Kind of a harsh thing to say."

"Really, there's no other word to call my aunt and uncle."

"Oh, so that's who you live with."

"Yeah," Harry answered. "Why?"

"Just wondered. Only heard about your backstory just yesterday."

"Oh right, that."

"Sorry about your parents, man."

"Yeah, well, I sort of wish everyone'd stop bringing it up."

"I know that feeling," Chey said. "Everywhere I go, people tend to think I'm a screw-up."

"Aren't you?"

"Only when exams are done." The pair laughed briefly as they entered the owlry. It was a very airy room with dozens upon dozens of owls perched overhead, while the little bones of devoured animals snapped under Chey's feet. "But seriously, I know what you're going through. My whole first year at Washington Magical was one long whisper: 'That's the kid whose parents were killed by dementors!'"

"Really?" Harry asked, a little surprised.

"Yep, that was me," Chey answered, trying to avoid the subject of his parents. "Then I go to Miami and it turns into 'There goes the kid who got kicked out of Washington.'"

"No, I mean...Were your parents really..."

Chey paused a minute, not really realizing he'd let slip his parents' fate to an almost total stranger. He'd completely forgotten that his story wasn't nearly as widespread as Harry's.

"Y...yeah."

"I'm sorry."

"Everyone is." Talking about it felt uncomfortable, so Chey searched quickly for a change of subject. Indicating the birds, he asked "Which of these is yours?"

"The difficult one," Harry answered, striding over to a rather stunning snowy owl.

"Nice. Got a name?"

"Hedwig, and she's not being very cooperative." Indeed, the owl refused to allow Harry to tie the letter around her leg.

"If you want," Chey said after watching this struggle, "you can borrow my raven."

"Really?" Harry asked, a bit apprehensive.

"Sure. Raithe'll probably get there faster, too."

Almost as if the owl would rather suffocate on an oversized mouse than allow the indignity of being substituted by a raven, Hedwig immediately stuck out her leg and allowed Harry to tie on the letter.

"Just try your best to find Sirius," Harry said in a low whisper to the bird as he carried her to the window. Apparently, it was not as low a whisper as Harry thought it would be, for Chey heard every word. It couldn't be possible. Did Harry have a connection with Sirius Black? Was Chey no longer alone in his belief of Black's innocence? One of the articles in the paper on Black's latest escape did mention something about someone claiming his innocense, but it didn't go into any detail.

Then again, it could be a coincidence. It was entirely possible there was another man in the world named "Sirius," and odds were that the Sirius Black wouldn't be communicating with a fourteen-year-old boy while an entire government was so eager to capture and imprison him, while another government was ready to capture him and grant him political asylum.

Just as Chey was reaching the conclusion that it was nothing more than coincidence, Harry spoke again to Hedwig just before she took flight: "...before the dementors do."

"Who's Sirius and why are dementors after him?" Chey asked, perhaps a little too accusingly.

"Er...No one," Harry stammered.

"It's not Sirius Black, is it?"

"What? No! This is someone else."

"Then why are dementors after him?"

"I never said that."

"Then why did I hear you say that?"

"Come off it, Chey," Harry said, as Chey sensed evasion. "Why would I send a letter to Sirius Black?"

"I don't know..." Chey admitted, "yet."

"Well," Harry said tentatively, "I'm meeting Ron and Hermoine for breakfast."

"Yeah. Sure, okay." Harry departed hurriedly, leaving Chey to listen to the hooting of the owls. Raithe had found Chey and stood quietly on his shoulder.

Harry knew more than he was letting on, that much was certain. If Chey could just get a little more information from Harry, he might be able to get American authorities to find Black before the British could. This was all, of course, assuming this wasn't someone else Harry was speaking to. But how many other fugitives named Sirius could there be?

* * *

Chey made his way down (getting lost only once for a moment) to the Great Hall for breakfast. He sat down alone, listening to the chatter around him. He'd soon discovered Harry, Ron and Hermoine were huddled together in quiet discussion. Curious about Harry's nervous behavior, Chey cast an eavesdropping spell he'd learned from a friend in Colorado, and their voices were as clear to him as if they were right next to him.

"That was a _lie_, Harry," Hermoine said rather sharply. "You _didn't _imagine your scar hurting and you know it."

"So what?" Harry retorted. "He's not going back to Azkaban because of me. But listen, Chey might think we know where Sirius is."

"What?" Hermoine and Ron almost shouted, directing quite a bit of attention their way.

"How did that happen?" Hermoine asked in a more whispered tone.

"He must have heard me telling Hedwig to find Sirius quickly."

"Why'd you have to say that out loud?" Ron asked.

"I don't know," Harry said. "I guess I forgot he wasn't in on the secret."

"How the bloody hell do you forget something like that?"

"It's not hard around him," Hermoine said. "It's easy to feel like you've known him a long time, Harry."

"How?"

"You've both had very similar upbringings."

"I haven't been expelled six times."

"No," Hermoine agreed, "but you both lost your parents before you could get to know them."

What exactly they discussed next Chey never heard, for Edward sat down right across the table, disrupting Chey's focus.

"What's it, a seventy-two?" he asked.

"Huh?"

"That Charger. It's a seventy-two, isn't it?"

"No, it's a sixty-nine, original stock."

"Beautiful."

"Not anymore."

"It can be fixed."

"It'll take me a while to figure out how."

"Is it a magnum or a four-twenty-six?"

"Four-twenty-six."

Edward smiled. "Then your in luck, mate. I know how that mess goes together."

"You know big blocks?" Chey asked, hopeful.

"And small blocks, and flatheads, Y-blocks, straights, slants, overheads, in-lines, and boxers. Fuel injection and carburetor, petrol and diesel, even radial."

"And now I'm curious how this can be."

"Dad's a muggle. Runs a shop for about anything that runs and a junkyard next door. When I was twelve I could scrap a motor and rebuild it better than it was."

"Well, color me impressed." For the first time all week , things were starting to look up for Chey. "Think you could help me out?"

"Only if you can help me with Flitwick's homework."

"I do believe that's a fair enough deal," Chey said, shaking hands. "When can you start?"

"I'm free all morning."

* * *

Author's note

Thank you all so, so much for being patient (mostly). For those of you who are anxious to read, I really appreciate your enthusiasm. I know it's been hard, but the storyline has really benefitted from the planning I've done. Half a dozen characters or so have been developed who will be regular visitors to the story. We'll see better details on the lives of Chey's parents as well as some insight into the Department of Sorcery. All good stuff to look forward to.

I'm on a short break from school now, and I should have a good week or two to crank out the chapters.

I must confess I got slightly sidetracked this past month. Buzzing in my head has been an idea for a Metroid fanfiction. It's pretty solid, but not ready for penning down to paper/digital medium.

From what I forsee, the drought of chapters is coming to a close. I hope to return to my once a week release schedule soon. "Hope," being the operative word.

Again, I thank you all for reading, waiting, and rereading. Come to think of it, I guess we could have called Chapters 1 to 35 as Season One if this were a TV show. So I hope you've enjoyed the first chapter of Season Two, bigger and badder (as in good) than the first! This hopes not to disappoint. Again, the operative word being "hope."

-Termite.


	37. Chapter 37, Remedial Plans

Characters, settings, and story relating to the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Remedial Plans

* * *

Chey and Edward spent the rest of the morning cleaning the parts and organizing them in ways to ease the task of rebuilding. Lunchtime consisted of the two of them planning the best course for the actual rebuilding. Scheduling conspired against them, however, as all afternoon Edward would be stuck in classes. Chey had some time to kill before his meeting with the headmaster, so, finding nothing more worthwhile, he decided to respond to Fleur and Viktor's letters.

"_Viktor, you're an underachiever._

_That's right. You wouldn't get anywhere if people like me, Sergey, Nikolay and Karkaroff didn't push you. All those fancy flying moves you know wouldn't be in your arsenal if we hadn't made you practice. You wouldn't have a star position on a world class team if I hadn't made you stay at the castle during Christmas vacation._

_Given this, if you don't sign up for the tournament I can guarantee you'll spend the rest of your life wondering 'what if.' That's a horrible feeling. No, you won't be wondering 'Why wasn't I picked champion,' because I've seen the competition, and it's none too impressive._

_What's the harm if you do sign up? You'll be chosen as the Durmstrang champion, do an impressive job, and everyone will know you're just as good at Quidditch as you are at everything else. I know that seems like a bad thing, but it will earn you respect. And respect is what moves you forward in the world. Sure, money and power will get you ahead in life too, but that's another lecture._

_My point is there's no reason for you not to. My advise is to take the short-term safe route and sign up for the short-list. I did some reading on the Tournament, and it turns out the deadline for deciding whether to participate is the night the champions are selected. This means you'll have until the opening of the tournament to decide if it really isn't for you._

_Good luck, buddy._

_Chey._

_P.S. By the way, what's your falcon's name?_"

He hated not telling Viktor where he was, and he was barely able to take solace in the idea that Viktor would be happily surprised by Chey's presence when he arrived. Chey felt he could elaborate a little more of his present scenario to Fleur.

"_Well, Fleur, I've run into a hitch in my research._

_I borrowed my dad's Charger (his favorite, I believe I told you), just to get around in style. Sounds good so far, right? Turns out the local poltergeist loves taking things apart. Yes, he ripped everything out of the engine compartment that wasn't welded down._

_As such, I haven't been able to spare much thought towards my research of wandless magic._

_This detour shouldn't be long, though. Found a guy who has a pretty extensive knowledge of what peg goes in which hole, so the car should be running in no time, provided nothing was damaged too badly._

_Keep me posted on how Maxime's selection process goes. I wonder if she'd try to keep you out of the tournament just for sticking up for me during my recent rash of bad publicity._

_Still missing your smile,_

_Chey._"

By the time he'd finished the letters, taking moments at a time to carefully choose his words, it was nearing the appointed time Minerva had told him he was to meet with Dumbledore. He sent Raithe and Viktor's falcon on their way, and did his best to remember the route to the headmaster's office.

The gargoyle stood sentry outside Dumbledore's office. This statue, which awaited a chosen password to be said by the entrant before allowing them passage, seemed unusual now that Chey paid better attention to it. The enchantment upon it was more than mere password protection. Looking deep into the spell, he could make out several exclusionary clauses, meaning that it could deny access even with the correct password. Of course, this also meant the opposite was possible.

On a whim, Chey focused hard on the reason for his visit, not saying a word. The surprising result was the gargoyle silently allowed him to pass. Privately reveling in his own clever thinking, he climbed the rising spiral staircase and opened the doors to the office.

"I'm here, Chief, so what's it about this time?" he asked upon arrival in the office filled with so many unique knick-knacks on the shelves. Seeing Crouch and Bagman seated by the Headmaster's desk, his tone changed dramatically. "And what do you two want?"

"Ah, now the planning can begin!" Bagman said in his overgrown-schoolboy manner.

"Planning?" Chey inquired.

"For the tournament," Dumbledore explained from his seat behind the desk. "Although we have most of the details already decided, I suggested we consult your expertise for some of the finer points."

"As I've said before, Albus, I doubt the boy can offer anything substantial to our efforts," Crouch said in an almost condescending voice.

"And I've said time and again that we must all have more faith in the youth, Barty," Dumbledore chastised Crouch. "Ludo, would you mind explaining what has been decided so far?"

"Right, then." Bagman straightened up and cleared his throat. "Well, the first task is going to test the champions' daring, so we asked ourselves 'What's more daring than facing a dragon?'"

"It's not that hard," Chey said, taking a seat.

"You're opinions aside," Dumbledore said, "I wondered if you had any objective thoughts on the matter."

Thinking a moment, Chey answered, "Well, interesting as it may be to watch, you can't just put a kid and a dragon in a pit and wait for one to drop. The main problem would be neither would have a reason to attack the other."

"We had the understanding that dragons were extremely territorial," Crouch said in a poorly veiled attempt to downplay Chey's expertise.

"Not in an unfamiliar environment, they're not. They need a reason to bite your head off."

"Yes, that's right," Ludo continued, exuberant as before. "We considered that, and we've devised a solution which will also tie the second task in with the first. See, the contestants will have to steal a golden egg from the nest, and that egg will hold a clue about the second task. Rather clever if I do say so myself,"

"It's a little early for atta-boys," Chey interjected. "For this to work, all your dragons would have to be nesting mothers."

"'All?' Well, we were going to have just one."

"You can't. You need each contestant to have their own trial and their own freshly rested dragon. Otherwise, it's not fair. And a nesting mother is a bitch to handle."

"Well, this is certainly getting more difficult," Bagman stated, his enthusiasm fading.

"And I'm not even done yet," Chey said, carrying on. "Dragons only nest for about three months, so altogether you'll need three nesting mothers in the same weight class."

"Merlin's beard!" Ludo exclaimed, standing aghast. "Young man, if it wasn't for you we wouldn't have known this! Well played, Albus!"

"Yeah, yeah, the man's a freaking genius," Chey said impatiently. "What's on tap for round two?"

"We'll put a close friend of each champion in an enchanted sleep and place them in the care of the merpeople," Dumbledore took over, perhaps tiring of Bagman's over enthused delivery. "We'll give them an hour or so to retrieve them."

"What merpeople?" Chey asked.

"In the lake," Dumbledore responded.

"Seriously?"

"For well over a thousand years, yes. Now, have you any thoughts about the second task?"

"Eh, not really. All sounds pretty good. Now tell me about part three."

"Er," Bagman started hesitantly, "we don't...have a really solid idea what we'll have..."

"You gotta be kidding."

"But we know we'll have a sphinx!"

Chey sighed. He really should've known these government types would be ridiculously short-sighted. He gave the possibility of a sphinx some thought and said, "Stick 'em all in a maze."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Make them have to get through a maze and have a sphinx protect the finish line or something."

"I say, young man, that's brilliant!"

"Calling it brilliant is just a way of making yourself feel better for not thinking of it weeks ago," Chey muttered, but not quietly enough to receive a smile of understanding from Dumbledore.

"And it doesn't have to stop at a sphinx, right?" Bagman carried on, unaware of Chey's side comment. "Perhaps we could put a boggart in there?"

"And I'm out of here," Chey said, standing up.

"I say, what for?"

"The Mediator is not to be involved in planning the details of the tasks," Dumbledore answered.

"Exactly!" Crouch spoke at last. "He shouldn't have been here in the first place!"

"Barty, if he hadn't been here, the first task would have been very dull indeed," Dumbledore countered. "Three champions would be facing a single dragon with no reason to challenge them."

"Good show, Albus," Bagman saluted him. "And really, Barty, it's not as if we couldn't have learned this from Amos Diggory, now, is it?"

"Granted," Crouch admitted, "but telling us to use a maze for the third task is going too far."

"Leaving now," Chey reminded them.

"Yes, thank you, Mister McGonagall," Dumbledore acknowledged. "If we require further advise-"

"You'll let me know, I'm sure," Chey said, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Chey's weekend consisted of dark looks from the Slytherins Chey had humiliated on Thursday, further repair of individual pieces torn asunder by the poltergeist, and some research into wandless magic for Minerva's assignment.

Alas, all his study gained him no leads, so come Monday evening, there he stood in the room to be transfigured, hunched over and exhausted.

"Not to worry," Minerva reassured Chey. "You have another two weeks."

Chey couldn't manage to utter a response. Having failed to find a workaround, he had tried the direct approach, throwing all the magic he could muster on his own. Ensuring he wouldn't cheat, he had extracted the spectral shards of his former wand from his right arm, thus adding to his exhaustion.

Minerva left as he reabsorbed his wand in the still untransfigured room. The feeling of emptiness left him, but he was still exhausted. After gathering his breath for a moment, he stumbled out into the corridors. It wasn't long before he found himself leaning against the wall of an empty hallway, sliding down to the floor to rest a moment.

_Foolish boy. By weakening yourself you have made it harder to control my spirit! You as yet don't know what havoc I could create with your power. It is imperative you-_

"Oi, Chey," came a voice, soon discovered to belong to Edward. "What're you on about sitting on the floor?"

"Homework," Chey replied drearily. "What time is it?"

"Nearly eleven. Get up." Chey was pulled to his feet by Edward, who started leading him back to the dormitory. "So what's Professor McGonagall have you doing?"

"She thinks I need to learn to cast major spells without a wand."

"Why?"

"I learned a long time ago that her motives are, for grief's sake, best left unexplored."

"You don't even wonder?"

"Not for years."

Another moment's walk found them in the nearly empty common room. They took seats by the window and Edward pulled a bottle of butterbeer out of his bag, which looked to have already been opened and reclosed.

"Want some?" he asked, handing Chey the partially full bottle.

"What is this?" Chey inquired. Pulling out the cork he took a sniff. "That's ten year-old scotch, isn't it?" Edward smiled in affirmation. "Kinda bold, having this in here, huh?"

"I've been bold for three years," he answered and conjured a glass for each of them.

"And I wonder what got you started."

"I had a friend," he started explaining, pouring them each a glass, "four years above me. He was just about to finish up his schooling here, and Filch caught him with about a dozen things on his forbidden list."

"I always feel bad for the guys who make the mistake of getting caught."

"So did I. He was already in a lot of trouble with Filch before, so I said all the Fanged Frisbees and Stink Pellets were mine."

"Mighty neighborly of you."

"Since then, he's sent me scotch hidden in butterbeer bottles every year."

"How many bottles?"

"Three dozen."

"And how does he manage that?"

"Avoiding expulsion earned him a position at a butterbeer and firewhiskey factory. And he has since risen to Production Manager of the plant."

"If it's just butterbeer and firewhiskey at the plant, where's he find the scotch?"

"The factory co-owns a muggle liquor shop."

"Feels good, having friends in the right places, doesn't it?"

"Too right, mate. Cheers." The two of them sat back and quietly drank their scotch. "Hey, it's back," Edward said, gazing out the window."

"What is?"

"There was a thestral hanging around you Wednesday night when you were fixing the Charger. It came back just now."

"You see them too?"

"I was nine. Bad car crash in front of Dad's auto shop. You?"

"Last Winter. Saw a rookie handler at the dragon reservation in Romania get slammed by a Horntail."

"It gets a little better over time."

"I've already accepted it. Just like the other tragedies in my life."

"Other?"

"Like getting expelled six times."

* * *

Author's note.

On vacation now, and the list of chores isn't too extensive, so I have time to work on this. Just this evening I finished Chapter 38, which will have an air of suspense to the end.

To be honest, the scotch in butterbeer bottles came to me in an instant. I seriously don't know what inspired me, so let me know if it entertained you so I can look for that inspiration nugget.

I'm doing my best to keep up on this, and I'm hoping for another creativity binge like the one I had last time I took the same vacation. Four to five chapters written in a single week was crazy fun. The two most prominent moments from that time were Chey's first ride on his new Firebolt, and the first duel between him and Fleur.

I missed everyone's feedback last chapter (except Procrastinator Tomorrow, you were helpful), so I'd love to hear it this go around, just to know if I've still got the knack you all love.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll stick with Chey to the bitter end (not that it'll necessarily be bitter).

-Termite.


	38. Chapter 38, Conflicting Commands

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Conflicting Commands

* * *

With all thoughts on transfiguration, thestrals, overseas friends, car repair, and ten year-old scotch, Chey found it easy to forget the next morning held in store for him Moody's lessons. He would have continued to forget had Cedric not reminded him at breakfast.

The class was in for a shock upon arrival. Understandably, for Moody had announced he would be placing them all under the Imperious Curse (spouting feeble logic along the lines of "Because you've got to know"), and they were to resist as best they could. A few students protested, stating the illegality of casting such a curse on another human, but they were silenced when he suggested they could find out the hard way on their own.

The first few acted as per Moody's unspoken instructions, jumping onto his desk, performing extravagant cartwheels, and various animal impressions. Even Edward tried to scale the classroom wall. Cedric was the first to show signs of resistance, his legs collapsing beneath him midway through a double backflip. He seemed to have landed quite hard, but he got right back on his feet after a moment, apparently unhurt. Though it was hard to see progress in his spectacular collapse, Moody positively raved about Cedric's resistance.

"McGonagall, you next," Moody said, and without pause, turned the curse on Chey.

Immediately, Chey's throat closed, stopping his reactionary gasp for air. He felt his knees hit the floor while darkness surrounded him. Out of this darkness, a calm voice crept up in the back of his mind:

"Leap up and swing from the rafters," said the voice. It seemed a reasonable request as any. If he could just breathe again, he'd get right on it. "Leap up and swing from the rafters."

You're not the type to take orders, said another voice, this one full of pride.

"Get on up there."

Be your own self.

"It's no trouble, just leap into the rafters."

You decide for yourself what to do.

"No doubt you're able. Hop on up."

It's not about capability, it's about your pride in self.

"Leap up and swing from the rafters now."

"_NO MORTAL HAS THE RIGHT TO COMMAND ME!_"

Pain shot through Chey's right hand the instant the darkness lifted and his throat opened, and he found himself on all fours with a trickle of blood coming from his mouth. Gasping for air and drenched in sweat, he saw a large crack in the floor running from his apparently broken right hand to where Moody now lay on his back.

Several students rushed to help Moody back to his feet, while Cedric pulled Chey up by his arm. Pain continued to sting his limp, broken hand as it shook uncontrollably.

"Professor," Cedric said, "Chey needs to get to the hospital wing."

Moody looked Chey over once, then in his customary growl said, "Fine. Diggory, you take him."

Cedric led Chey down the maze of corridors to the hospital wing. As they walked, Chey tried to remember the way, figuring he may require this knowledge later on, but he was constantly distracted by the pain in his shaky hand. Halfway there, the shake in his hand spread to the rest of his body in the form of an intermittent nervous twitch.

"Oh, what do we have today?" asked the nurse when they entered. The ward was lined with beds on each side, each with one or two chairs for a patient's visitors. Halfway down the well-lit room were two patients, one with boils all over his face and the other holding a bloody' handkerchief to his nose.

"Chey's broken his hand, Madam Pomfrey," Cedric answered.

"And how did this happen?"

"Moody Imperioused him and he fought back."

"Gave Moody a good roughing up, did he?"

"Y-yeah," Cedric replied, a little stunned. "How'd you know?"

"Professor Moody really should have known you don't cast the Imperious Curse on a person with veela blood without getting a good strong kick in the chest," she criticized Moody.

"Did you have to say that out loud?" Chey asked her, annoyed.

"Oh, come now, child. You didn't honestly think your bloodline is that easy to hide, did you?"

"Minerva told you, didn't she?"

"She thought it best I know, considering all the trouble you're bound to get into," she said with a cheery smile. "Come have a seat over here," she led them to a bed near the other two patients, soon revealed to be Fred with the handkerchief and George with the boils, then disappeared into her office.

"What happened to you two?" Chey asked the twins.

"Experimenting," Fred answered.

"With what?"

"We're going to open a joke shop, so we need to create some products," George explained, being the one better able to speak as his brother had the handkerchief to his nose. "Fred's been working on our Nosebleed Nougat, and I've just tested the Fever Fudge."

"And you would do something so foolish as to test them on on yourselves?" Cedric asked in bewildered amazement.

"That's right," Fred said from behind the handkerchief.

"I believe it," Chey said between winces of pain.

Madam Pomfrey returned from her office with two bottles in hand. Approaching the twins first, she tapped Fred on the nose with her wand, then handed George one of the bottles. "Mister Weasley, your nose should be just fine now," and as he removed the cloth from his nose, indeed the bleeding had stopped, "and, other Mister Weasley, same potion as before, just dab a bit on each boil and they'll shrink right away. Now, off to class you get. And if you're back in here before the week's out, I'll be telling the Headmaster what you're up to."

"You know, George," Fred said to his twin on the way out, "we really ought to make a priority of making an antidote for these things."

"Too right, Fred. But that involves potions..."

"You could ask Professor Snape for help," Madam Pomfrey suggested.

"Snape?" Fred bespoke. "Help us?"

"A brilliant joke if ever I heard one, Madam Pomfrey," George commended her.

"Thank you." Then, dismissing them, she said, "Off you get." She then approached Chey, tapped her wand to his broken hand, which mended instantly, and poured the second bottle full of a pale blue potion into a glass. "And this will help the shaking," she said, handing him the glass.

"I don't recall shakiness being a symptom of the Imperious Curse," Chey said, drinking the vaguely lemon-flavored potion with mild difficulty.

"That's your heritage, young man," she began explaining. "The Unforgivables were meant for human targets, so they don't work well with part-humans, and Professor Moody really should have known this before he cursed you. Naturally, you'd think a man who spent his life fighting the Dark Arts would know them a little better than that, but I suppose it was too much to hope."

"Uh, Madam Pomfrey?" Cedric asked. "Chey didn't just fight back. Moody was ten feet away from Chey and he was knocked down when Chey hit the floor with his fist."

"And I couldn't breathe," Chey added.

"Veela blood has a lot o f magic in it," Madam Pomfrey continued. "Veela instinct is self defense, so that's why Professor Moody got roughed up a bit."

"But why did my throat close up?"

"All the Unforgivables have a different effect on veela blood. The Imperious Curse will paralyze the target, and the Cruciatus will force them against the nearest wall." She hesitated a bit, then said, "No one knows what the killing curse will do, though."

"And I'm not anxious to find out."

"Drink up, now. I'll come back in a moment," she said, then trotted back to her office.

"So are you really a veela?" Cedric asked as Chey took another swig of the calming potion, and indeed the shaking became more subdued.

"One-eighth," Chey answered. "And I'd appreciate it if this was kept quiet."

"What for?"

"I'm just not ready for everyone to know just yet."

"Well, sure thing," agreed Cedric. "But, why should it matter?"

"It doesn't, really," Chey said, wondering if it was wise to say this much. "It's just that, my dad was all but shunned by old friends of the family when he married a quarter-veela like my mom."

"People actually care about that in America?"

"Hey, we're not perfect," he said trying his best to smile. "Actually, most of us don't. But the aristocrats are very good at keeping track of family histories. If any one of your ancestors up to four generations ago was a horse thief, you're out of the wine club."

"That's a load of bollocks," Cedric admonished the aforementioned socialites.

"Traditional family beliefs have their place," Chey excused them, "like not killing people random people on the street, making kids earn their lollipops, and defending your home with a ten-gauge shotgun and a well trained German Shepard. They just haven't caught up to the point where they don't care what your parents were."

"Messed up, mate."

"I hear ya," was Chey's agreement. "So, you'll keep this hush hush for now?"

"No problem," Cedric answered. "Tight as a drum."

* * *

Madam Pomfrey's talk of his veela blood having some powerful magic imbued within gave Chey a bit of an idea. If he could somehow tap into this well of wandless magic, and channel it consciously, he just may be able to transfigure three rooms into one.

The issue would have to wait, however. Overhearing excited chatter by some otherwise obnoxious third years speculating over the tournament had reminded Chey that a letter to Charlie regarding the first task's dragons was perhaps a bit overdue.

"_Heya Chuck._

_Those twin brothers of yours are insane. It's probably wisest not to inform their mother, but they've been experimenting with prank shop products on themselves. Were they dropped as children, or did they use their own heads as battering rams?_

_As for your other siblings here in the castle of British oddities, your sister is burning the midnight oil with studying and Red is making up horrible fates for himself as Divination homework. I hope beyond hope that second one is consistent with previous behavior._

_Oh, and just a heads-up:_

_You remember that discussion a month back when I was appointed Triwizard Mediator? Well, the boneheads in charge of events decided it would be a fantastic idea to sick some dragons on unsuspecting champions. Their envisioned dragon fight will need nesting mothers, though. One for each participant._

_Refresh my memory, if you could, as to which dragons will be nesting by end of November? Keep in mind we'll need three, all in the same weight class. If we don't have enough, check in my office (third drawer in cabinet 5) for contact info for the Wales, Nevada, Norway, and Nu Jiang reserves. I want us to be prepared when Bagman comes up short on info. I swear, how did that guy ever get a government position?_

_Actually, we may want a list of four, just as a contingency plan should difficulty arise with one of the top three. And make arrangements for Vipey to come over. Keeping three pissed off dragons quiet in unfamiliar territory would be a bitch without him._

_Thanks a million,_

_Chey._"

As Raithe had not yet returned with Fleur's response, Chey would have to borrow an owl, a prospect he was sure Raithe would not take kindly to. Thus, Chey thought it wise to wait, and he thought his decision was final as he finished writing the letter in the common room after Charms class. Final, that is, until Harry, Ron, and Hermoine entered the room.

"It's a wonder he lasted in the Ministry as long as he did, the way he talks," Ron said in a complaining tone, his feet skipping on every other step. They approached Chey's corner of the room, deep in their conversation, and made to drop their bags on his table.

"Something wrong with your leg, Red?" Chey said, and for the first time they noticed him. Their startled reaction amused him.

"Ron had a little trouble fighting Professor Moody's Imperious Curse," replied Harry, the first to recover from suddenly being made aware of Chey's presence.

"He put you guys under the curse too?"

"What do you mean 'us too?'" Hermoine asked as they all took seats around Chey's table. "Did he curse the seventh years as well?"

"And everyone in between, it would seem," Chey wondered aloud. "Why would he do that?"

"He's here to teach us how to fight dark arts," Harry proposed. "Wouldn't it make sense to teach us what it's like to fight them?"

"I know, I know. I just would've drawn the line at fifth or sixth year. Odds are that sixteen year olds are better able to fight it."

"Harry fought it off!" Ron exclaimed.

"And broke both kneecaps," Harry added. "Then Moody wanted me to demonstrate it another four times."

"Really?" Edward appeared, startling all four of them. "Chey broke his hand and had his throat closed up when he fought it."

"Why did your throat close up?" Hermoine recovered, and spoke with an almost accusatory tone.

"Just a bad reaction," Chey evaded.

There was a pause, rather long for a pause, during which Edward took his own seat at the table. Then Ron broke the silence, asking, "Who're you writing to?"

"Your brother, Charlie, actually," answered Chey, folding the parchment so they couldn't see the letter which betrayed details of the Tournament. "But it'll have to wait to go out."

"Why's that?"

"My raven is currently in the process of a delivery," he explained, "thus, unavailable to me."

"Why not borrow an owl?" Edward proposed.

"Raithe doesn't take kindly to being replaced," Chey said knowingly, flashing back to when he had to borrow a Beauxbatons owl to send Viktor a letter because Karkaroff had learned to recognize the black bird flitting in and out of the Durmstrang Castle. Raithe was not pleased at the time, and Chey wasn't entirely sure he had since been forgiven.

"Borrow Pig," Ron offered.

"His name is Pigwidgeon!" came Ginny's voice at the next table.

"Whatever!"

"Seriously?"

"Sure," he confirmed. "He's not doing anything and your bird doesn't have to know."

"I'll regret it," Chey lamented, "but the sooner this gets out the better. I'll send it off tomorrow."

"All right. Pig'll be the small annoying one in the owlry." When Chey opened his mouth to ask for further detail, Ron held up his hand and said, "You'll know him when you see him."

"Who's your bird delivering to?" Edward began to pry.

"Friend from another school." Edward's expression beckoned a little more information, perhaps specifically which school. "Beauxbatons." Still, Edward's face pressed on, though the others had started to busy themselves with homework. "Female friend," Chey relented, as the three fourth-years snapped to attention. Even Ginny joined their table at these words.

"Well, now I'm interested," Ron said, putting away his half-finished essay.

"I hate you," Chey silently mouthed to Edward.

"You know, I never thought you the type to have a girlfriend," Ginny noted.

"There's no getting around talking about her now," Hermoine said.

"Yeah, what's she like," Edward pressed on.

"You guys wouldn't be interested in hearing about this," Chey tried to deflect.

"Think about it, Chey," Edward began in a calmer voice than the other three. "We are stuck within the confines of this castle for near ten months out of the year. The most exciting things are letters from home and stories in the _Daily Prophet_. Anything that happens outside these walls is interesting. Gossip travels faster than the speed of sound in here, so within a day we're already bored with what happens here. Any smidgeon of information coming from the outside shows itself, and we just can't get enough of it."

"How very sad," came Chey's sarcastic tone.

"So you understand our plight, then?" Edward rebounded. "Bear in mind that if we don't hear it now, we'll carry on and on until you divulge. There'll be no ignoring us."

"Fine," Chey surrendered. "She's good looking."

"How good looking?" Ron inquired.

"A knockout. Way out of your league, Red."

"I love when they're out of my league."

"And you two are how close?" Ginny asked.

"Close enough."

"How close is close enough?" said Edward.

"Uh, close enough to take her to the World Cup."

"You didn't bring anyone to the World Cup," Hermoine accosted him.

"Just because you didn't see her doesn't mean she wasn't there, Whiskers," Chey said pointedly. "I also brought her little sister."

"What's her sister look like?" Edward asked expectantly.

"Forget it, Eddy. She's about ten years younger than us."

"Don't call me 'Eddy,'" he said with a more sinister voice.

"How's she taking it, you being at another school?" Harry interrupted before Chey could ask why Edward was averse to being addressed as Eddy.

"Truth be told," Chey answered, "she doesn't know I'm here."

Ron jumped to the conclusion of "You lied to her?"

"Omitted certain facts," Chey corrected him. "Governments do that a lot. I just told her I found an extensive magical library, which Hogwarts happens to be in possession of, which I can use for private study, which was my plan for this year until Aunt Em and her boss convinced me otherwise."

"Dumbledore asked you to come here?" Harry asked. "Why?"

"Dumbledore has his reasons I suppose," Hermoine excused him, speaking as though she had said this several times before.

"But why not tell her you're here?" Ginny asked, getting the discussion back on track.

"I figure it'll be a nice surprise when she comes here for the Triwizard Tournament."

"She's not going to like it," Hermoine said wisely.

"Enlighten me," Chey said, doubtful Fleur would be even the slightest bit annoyed with him.

"If you're as close as you say, and you're keeping regular correspondence, that means she wants to know where you are all the time. When she finally learns that you haven't been completely honest, she won't care that you only 'omitted certain facts.' I would be ready for a slap in the face, if I were you."

"Point taken, but I think I know her a little better."

At this time, a red-tailed hawk approached the nearest window and perched on the sill.

"Anyone expecting something?" Chey asked the group.

Being nearest, Harry opened the window to let in the hawk, which leapt onto the table, an envelope tied to its leg. As Edward untied the letter, the hawk stood obediently still, and Chey saw a metal band around its right leg with some sort of embossed circular seal too small to see from halfway across the table.

"It's got your name on it," Edward said.

He passed Chey the letter, which on the front read "Top Secret: Expressly for the viewing of Chey William McGonagall, Class Echo," and the top-left corner had the same seal as was on the hawk's leg band, only larger so Chey could make out the seal properly: a wand crossed with a sword set behind an eagle with half-flared wings, while around the edge read "Department of Sorcery, United States of America."

Chey figured that "Top Secret" meant "Top Secret," so he banked on the safe side and excused himself from the table, giving the predictable excuse that he was tired and it was getting late. As he headed up the stairs to the dormitory, he saw the hawk turn tail and fly back out the open window.

Whiskers is crazy, Chey thought to himself. Fleur was going to love seeing him when she arrived at the end of October. No way she'd be angry.

He entered the empty dormitory and opened the envelope. Inside was a single piece of stationary, headed "Office of the Secretary of Sorcery." The only other thing on the paper was a typed message: "See you around, kid." There was nothing else, written or typed, and the back side was blank.

"What's so secret about this?" he wondered aloud, but no answer came to him.

* * *

Author's Note.

For a while, I've actually been working on illustrating the Department of Sorcery seal. Lunan's helping me, and I hope to have it finished (provided Lunan will actually work on it, wink wink nudge nudge) and posted on the Spirit of Fear section of my website.

Well, my vacation wasn't as productive as the last one, but I still got three chapters, and this is the first of them.

And now I ask a moment of silence, as we remember my old cherry-colored Epiphone EB-0 bass, which after leaning precariously against a sofa, fell victim to gravity and broke the neck perpendicular to the grain and above the truss rod, with no hope of repair. Thank you for your condolences, but I'm not that heartbroken. Yes, it was my first bass, but I only got it last December. It will, however, be missed.

The second tragedy of late occured when my Palm Zire 72 died, failing to operate after an overnight charge. That, too, will be missed, only because it kept me organized for two and a half years (all data was backed up, thankfully).

I've talked enough about the intimate details of my personal belongings, so I'll end with this:

Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll continue.

-Termite.


	39. Chapter 39, Laying Out the Welcome Mat

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Laying Out the Welcome Mat

* * *

The remaining weeks in the month provided no further inspiration, be it for transfiguring three rooms into one, harnessing the power in his veela blood, or what was so secret about "See you around, kid."

And Chey was beginning to get frustrated as his last possible day to complete Minerva's task approached. Unassisted by his veela blood, he could barely manage to shift a single brick, let alone even two. And there were thousands of bricks, plus rafters, to be moved all at once.

As such, come the final Monday of September he stood exhausted once again, wand shards extracted, in the room to be transfigured, and not a single brick had budged.

"Perhaps we can give it another month?" Minerva suggested at the end of the day, and Chey was not one to complain. The rash of frustration had only increased his desire to accomplish the mighty task set before him.

So they had extended the wager by one month, and if Chey had completed it by October not only would his curfew be rescinded, but as an added incentive he would be given the location of the kitchens; a small consolation, but excellent potential for midnight snacks.

This extra month was in vain, however, for there was no progress to be had.

Hagrid was starting to make progress, however. The Blast-Ended Skrewts were growing more dangerous, but Hagrid was starting to develop proper safeguards against student injury. Additionally, the two of them began arranging to bring either Vipey or Mayla to the Hogwarts grounds for a lesson.

Moody had been teaching them dueling techniques, advising them what a dark wizard would do in certain situations. He hadn't told them what to do in these situations, electing to let everyone figure it out for themselves, then telling them whether it was correct. A few students came up with viable courses of action that even Moody never thought of.

Meanwhile, Flitwick was truly challenging Chey, Cedric and Edward. They were delving into the principles of magic that Chey had never considered during his own experimentation, though what they had covered hadn't provided a single clue for Minerva's assignment.

Animosity between Chey and several Slytherins, if nothing, escalated, especially with Derrick. Hands always twitched towards wands when they passed each other in the hallways. He could tell Derrick was definitely someone to be wary of, for he was doing exceptionally well in Moody's Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

The Charger's rebuild was making progress, though Edward was worried about the condition of the carburetor and transmission box.

"It's okay," Chey said when Edward raised his concern. "If they're in really bad condition, I'll just ask Lenny for some replacements."

"Who's Lenny?"

"My dad hired him when he was still alive to take care of his ever-growing car collection. Then when Dad died, he was appointed caretaker of the estate. Pretty cool guy. Makes an excellent lager."

"And he can get us parts?"

"And fluids. He's well connected to suppliers."

Outside the castle, Viktor had informed Chey that Karkaroff's requirement for of-age students to come to Hogwarts was a simple minimum grade-point average which, big surprise, Viktor passed. Chey and Viktor shared a theory that Karkaroff had looked at Viktor's grades before setting the grade limit. Nikolay failed to achieve the required grades, and while Sergey had barely made it, he elected to stay with Mariya, who also hadn't passed. Andrey, who, according to Viktor, still harbored an intense hatred toward Chey, had not only made the required grade, he had surpassed Viktor's grades and would be in the delegation shortlist.

Fleur's situation was a little different. Apparently, Maxime was still upset about Fleur coming to Chey's defense. Rather than a simple minimum bar to pass, things were a little more elaborate. All students who would be the required age and wished to participate (redundant, of course, for every student wished to go, even those too young) entered in a two week long ladder-style dueling tournament. Only the top twelve would be permitted to go. These top twelve had to be careful in the halls, especially after three of them were hospitalized with serious maladies, and the next people on the ladder were moved into the delegation group. There were no witnesses when the victims first began to suffer these ailments. As such, Chey suggested that Fleur use her charm to hire a bodyguard. Naturally, she refused, and elected to just travel the hallways in a group. She was not alone in this logic, for soon all the select twelve had started traveling together.

Ron's diminutive owl, Pigwidgeon, had brought Charlie's reply.

"_Bad news, Chey._

_We have three nesting mothers right now, but all will have their eggs hatch well before close of November. And the handlers in charge of the reserves abroad won't talk to a mid-level employee at Romania like myself, so I couldn't get any information from them. I'll keep you informed about nesting mothers here, but I doubt we'll have three by then, let alone a backup._

_As for my brothers, Mum already knows. But you're probably right that she ought not to know they're experimenting on themselves. Do me a favor and make sure they don't kill themselves, won't you?_

_Charlie._"

So Chey was forced to fall back on Harold Walker, an old acquaintance who personally looked after Vipey when he was boarded in Nevada. Middle aged and heavily scarred, Walker was an experienced handler with an administrative position at the Nevada reserve, and may just have the kind of authority necessary to get the requisite information from the other reserves.

"_Hey, Walker_

_In anticipation of your most likely first question, Vipey's doing great. I think he's enjoying Romania a whole lot more than Nevada. Which I guess goes without saying, because he just hated the desert._

_I've got a bit of a request to make of you._

_I'm in a position that requires I know of the status of as many dragons in the various reserves will be nesting mothers by November 24th. My associates and I will need at least three all in the same weight class. Sadly, a Class Echo isn't enough to get the higher-ups at those reserves in the Wales, Norway, and Nu Jiang reservations to cough up the info._

_I know there are three currently in Romania, but all will have hatched before then. And I think Roccaverdens will be too docile for what we have in mind._

_Thanks for the effort._

_Vipey says Hi._

_Chey McGonagall._"

Knowing Ron's owl probably wouldn't survive a trans-Atlantic journey, he placed the letter in an envelope addressed to the Department of Sorcery's office at the American embassy in London, with instructions to forward it to Walker.

Chatter about the Tournament intensified around the Hogwarts castle upon reaction to a new notice posted in the entrance hall.

"_TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT_

_The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at 6 o'clock on Friday the 30th of October. Lessons will end half an hour early. Students will return their bags and books to their dormitories and assemble in front of the castle to greet our guests before the Welcoming Feast._"

That afternoon, Chey had a feeling he wouldn't be taking another shot at transfiguring that room. His first clue was, in addition to Minerva waiting for him, Dumbledore was present in the room when he entered.

"It's not enough you're telling me where to go to school," Chey complained. "Now you want to be in charge of how I go about my lessons."

"I thought this might be the best time to discuss your duties as the Triwizard Mediator," the headmaster explained.

"What's to discuss? They're all ceremonial, if I recall."

"Quite right," confirmed Dumbledore. "And the first duty is to welcome the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang when they arrive on Friday night."

"When you say 'welcome them,'" Chey asked, feeling a little apprehensive.

"You will be sitting with the staff during the Welcoming Feast," Minerva filled in the blanks.

"Thank you, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "Now, after the feast, it will be your duty to inform the school about the strict age limit, as well as to introduce the impartial judge." His hands motioned to a large, jewel-encrusted wooden chest near the door which Chey had not previously noticed.

"What is it?"

"Have a look," Dumbledore said in an almost carefree tone.

Chey approached the wooden chest suspiciously, and rather than risk any fingers, opened it with magic. Inside was a nondescript wood hewn goblet. Forgoing further caution, Chey picked it up from the chest.

"The Goblet of Fire," Dumbledore answered his unspoken question. "Contestants will write their name and school on a slip of parchment, and drop it into the goblet before the second feast on Saturday."

But Chey was not listening. This goblet was incredible. The goblet itself was nothing special, but the enchantment upon it certainly was: a semi-sentient selection charm, modular in design to allow any number of schools to compete. Hundreds of years old, and it looked like the spell hadn't deteriorated at all.

"These," Dumbledore continued, handing him two rolls of parchment, "are the details I would like you to cover after Fridays' feast. The second roll contains the details you will divulge to the champions who are chosen."

"Pay attention to the Headmaster when he speaks to you," came a snarl of a voice, revealed to be Moody, who had only just entered the room.

"Sorry about that," Chey snapped back to reality, not really meaning that he was sorry.

"Is something wrong with the Goblet?" Minerva inquired, aware of Chey's unique view of the magic around him.

"No, it's just...interesting."

"How so?" Dumbledore asked, the tone of interest quite convincing.

"The spell is just as intact as it was when it was first cast. It's perhaps the most stable I've ever seen. See, it's just a judge of character charm, seamlessly combined with a sorting mechanism similar to what's in that Sorting Hat you stuck on my head. But it's expandable. It doesn't have to be just three schools. However many different schools it reads, that's how many it believes are competing, and it's designed to sort the entrants as such."

"You got all that from holding it, did you?" Moody growled in mild amazement.

"Sometimes my nephew can't help rambling when he's spotted an interesting bit of magic," Minerva explained.

"And he's surprisingly accurate," Dumbledore praised him.

"So you caught all that, too?" Chey asked him.

"Most of it. The rest, however, I must confess I hadn't considered." Chey wasn't sure the headmaster was being entirely honest.

"Remarkable ability," said Moody, still on the subject of Chey's power of magical observation. "It would make you a fine auror someday."

"Bullshit," Chey said instantly, placing the goblet back in the chest. "Too happy wrangling dragons to spend my life chasing down crooks."

* * *

European wizard pride showed itself over the next week. Suits of armor no longer squeaked, and several grimy portraits had the worst of the dirt scrubbed off them. The morning of October Thirtieth revealed the Great Hall to be decked out in the appropriate decorations for each of the four houses above each table, with the Hogwarts crest, consisting of an ornate letter H encircled by an eagle, lion, snake and badger, embroidered on a banner above the staff table.

"You going to enter this tournament?" Edward asked Chey at breakfast.

"Not my thing," Chey dodged. "You?"

"To be honest, all that danger and death toll talk of Dumbledore's turned me off the glory and prize money. My neck's not worth a thousand galleons."

"I heard Cedric's going for it."

"So is every Quidditch player who's of age," Edward said. He then looked down the table, where a snowy owl had just landed. "Who's Potter writing to?"

Harry, Ron and Hermoine were sitting together right where the owl had touched down, and Chey recognized it as Hedwig, belonging to Harry. Remembering he was very interested in who Harry may have been in contact with, he pulled out his wand and cast the eavesdropping spell.

"'...and well hidden,'" Harry read from the letter in a hushed tone, but loud and clear to Chey. "'I want you to keep me posted on everything that's going on at Hogwarts. Don't use Hedwig, keep changing owls, and don't worry about me, just watch out for yourself. Don't forget what I said about your scar.'"

"Why d'you have to keep changing owls?" Ron asked, trying to keep his voice down.

"Hedwig'll attract too much attention," Hermoine answered at once. "She stands out. A snowy owl that keeps returning to wherever he's hiding...I mean, they're not native birds, are they?"

"Thanks, Hedwig," Harry said, stroking the bird, which took a brief drink from his goblet, then took off again. "Come on, we'll be late for class."

"Didn't get anything," Chey said to Edward, lifting the spell.

"Shame," Edward said. "Sometimes you can tell what's going to happen next if you just follow what that kid does."

But Chey got plenty of information. Whoever Harry was talking to was indeed hiding, and if Harry kept switching owls, it wouldn't be as easy as following the bright white spot in the sky that was the snowy owl Hedwig.

Harry was not the only one getting post, for Raithe glided down to the table where Chey and Edward sat, carrying Fleur's latest letter.

"_Chey,_

_I've wondered for some time how quickly Raithe delivers letters, so I'm letting you know I will send him out eight o'clock on the evening of the Twenty-Ninth._

_Another of us twelve chosen has fallen ill by mysterious circumstances, but I'm still fine. There was an attempt on my well being last week, but I fought him off._

_We are leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow morning, and we expect to arrive that evening, and we'll be traveling by the winged horses. No, we won't be riding them a la Mayla the Opaleye, but rather they will be pulling a giant carriage Madame Maxime has procured. I have no idea where she got it, but it has the same expansion spell upon it that was on the camper you brought to the World Cup, so we should be quite comfortable._

_You needn't worry about my falling for another boy while I'm at Hogwarts, but I'm curious what you meant by 'I shall know if you have?' Will someone be following me? You should know me better than that._

_I will send word immediately whether I'm chosen as champion or not._

_Fleur._"

"Twelve hours," Chey remarked. "You are one fast bird, Raithe."

"That from the girlfriend you won't talk about?" Edward asked.

"That's right. Come on, Eddy, let's see what we can do with that transmission box."

"Don't call me that."

Come six o'clock that evening, the entire school had assembled outside the castle's giant oak front doors. Students stood shoulder to shoulder, the youngest in front.

Initially standing with the other seventh-year Gryffindors, Chey was surprised when Minerva grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him out of the line.

"You remember what you're supposed to say tonight?" she asked him, the anticipation thick in her tone.

"Relax, Em," Chey assured her, pulling the roll of parchment out of his cloak. "I looked over it this morning. You pull me out of line just to ask me that?"

"You won't be standing with the students, you'll be with the teachers, remember?" she said, now leading him to where the teachers stood. "And change the color of your cloak."

"What's wrong with black?"

"You're the neutral party, so you can't tie yourself to any one school during the official ceremonies," she hissed. "Now change it to something other than black, red, or blue!"

"Ever consider becoming a professional nag?" Chey muttered, changing his cloak to a bright silver and taking his place next to Dumbledore. Then, to the headmaster, he asked, "Where's Shaggy?"

"You mean Hagrid?" Dumbledore said, either making the nickname connection or having already been informed, the latter more likely. "His attention has been diverted by his more rambunctious charges. Why?"

"How much single-malt whiskey do we have on hand?"

"A fair amount, I think."

"Maxime's horses guzzle it like candy."

"Thank you for forewarning us, Chey."

"Those horses are the last things you want to have hungry. Regardless however much whiskey you have, you'll want to put in an order for a lot more pretty soon."

"I understand."

The dusk air was refreshingly still, cool and clear. In front of him, Chey heard the idle chatter of the students, speculating how the delegations would arrive. Their tones were beginning to get a little anxious, when finally Dumbledore said, "Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

While the students encountered difficulty seeing it, Chey spotted the horses immediately, flying low over the forest to the south. Twelve stark-white enormous winged horses pulled an oversized powder-blue carriage. The front three rows of students stepped backward as the carriage flew ever closer.

With an incredible crash which caused several students to jump, the horses hooves touched the ground, followed by the carriage wheels. They cantered closer to the double oak doors before coming to a stop. The carriage door opened, and a boy Chey recognized as being a year below him jumped out, unfolded a set of golden steps, then jumped back to allow Madame Maxime to descend the steps.

Just as enormous as Chey remembered, the woman, dressed in black satin and decked out with many gleaming opals, approached the assembled teachers, her shivering, powder-blue fine silk robed students in tow with shawls around their faces.

When Dumbledore started to clap, the students followed suite, and Maxime relaxed into a gracious smile, extending her opal strewn hand for Dumbledore to kiss it.

"My dear Madame Maxime," he said. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Dumbly-dorr," she said in her deep voice and imperfect English. "I 'ope I find you well?"

"In excellent form, I thank you. I believe you know our Triwizard Mediator, Mister Chey William McGonagall?"

* * *

Author's note.

Happy Ten Thousand Hits to Spirit of Fear! You made it happen, readers! Thank you.

I guess in the grand scheme of things, 10,000 hits isn't that big a deal. But I measure my feelings of self-worth by my web traffic, so if something gets 10,000 hits, I'm gonna talk about it, dammit!

And keep your reviews coming. I love hearing from you guys.

-Termite.


	40. Chapter 40, The Tournament Begins

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Forty

The Tournament Begins

* * *

Madame Maxime's face froze and the Beauxbatons students' eyes widened at the sound of Chey's name. A beautiful, smooth face with bright blue eyes revealed itself from behind its shawl, and Fleur stared at him, awestruck. She took half a step forward before she saw Chey motion for her to stop.

"Professor Dumbly-dorr," Maxime regained her composure, "I was under ze impression you 'ad selected a _qualified_ mediator for ze tournament."

"And so I have, Olympe. Mister McGonagall has equal ties to each school, and is perfectly capable of the Mediator duties."

"Albus, I-"

"If you wish to discuss it, Madame, there will be time during the feast. In the meantime, I'm sure your pupils would like to go inside and warm up a bit."

Maxime apparently found no words with which to argue, the well being of her students being a priority for her. With a haughty sniff, she beckoned the shivering students inside past the assembled faculty.

"How did you-" Fleur tried frantically to speak as she walked past Chey, but he interrupted her whispering, "We'll talk later."

Again, the Hogwarts students were giddy with anticipation, wondering how big the Durmstrang horses would be. Chey doubted Karkaroff would even bother with horses. The most dramatic entrance he could think Durmstrang capable of would involve the giant pirate ship docked in their lake, but he couldn't imagine it flying over the treetops for hundreds of miles.

Cries from the students directed his attention to the Hogwarts lake, where a giant whirlpool had formed. From the center emerged a mast, followed by a mainsail, leading to the entire ship climbing out of the great spiral. The whirlpool dissipated, and the ship drifted closer to shore. An anchor splashed into the water, and a plank was dropped to the water's edge, then thirteen dark shapes descended the plank and approached the assembly of apprehensive students.

Coming into view were the fur coated Igor Karkaroff and twelve student members of the delegation, Viktor at the forefront.

"Dumbledore!" Karkaroff called jovially. "How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?"

"Blooming, thank you , Professor Karkaroff," Dumbledore answered, shaking hands with Karkaroff.

"Dear old Hogwarts," Karkaroff said in a nostalgic manner while gazing at the castle. "How good it is to be here, how good." Changing tone, he turned his attention to the international Quidditch superstar behind him. "Viktor, come along, into the warmth...you don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold..."

"I have never really known you to get sick, Viktor," Chey said, and Karkaroff's doting nature halted immediately.

"Y-you!"

"Professor, I think I vould like to go inside," Viktor said, and Karkaroff, frustration in his eyes, led his students into the entrance hall. "Good to see you, my friend," Viktor whispered, smiling briefly.

"You too, buddy," Chey replied.

As there were no more foreign visitors to greet, the Hogwarts students filed into the entrance hall, followed by the teachers and Chey.

"And just how did you plan to prevent those two from strangling me to death," Chey asked in a hushed voice to Dumbledore, "let alone allow me to mediate the Tournament?"

"Not to worry, Chey. I'll merely enlighten them to your more positive traits over some deliciously prepared dishes from their home countries."

"That'll take some work. Almost eighteen years, and even Aunt Em isn't convinced."

Dumbledore chuckled lightly, and didn't seem the least bit phased by the enormity of the task before him.

The hall was filled with chattering and excited students who had realized one of the greatest seekers in the history of Quidditch was less than a hundred yards away from them. They filed into the Great Hall before the staff and took their seats under their house's banners. The Beauxbatons students took a seat at the Ravenclaw table, either because of Ravenclaw and Beauxbatons both had the color blue in their motifs, or because Maxime had noticed the Gryffindor pin on Chey's cloak and instructed her pupils to avoid the red banner. After a moment's hesitation, Viktor and his classmates seated themselves at the Slytherin table.

Once all were seated, the staff entered the Hall, Maxime, Karkaroff, Dumbledore and Chey last in line. The Beauxbatons students leapt to their feet when Maxime entered, much to the amusement of the other students, and finally resumed their seats only after Maxime had taken hers. Chey had seated himself between Minerva and an empty seat to the right of the table's center.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and – most particularly – guests," Dumbledore addressed the room, the only one who remained standing. "I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable."

An unmistakably derisive laugh came from the cluster of Beauxbatons students, and Chey had a good feeling it might have been Fleur. It was just the kind of thing she would laugh about.

"The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast," Dumbledore continued. "I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home."

At those words, the headmaster sat down and immediately engaged Karkaroff in conversation, perhaps selling him on Chey's merits as the unbiased party in the Tournament.

The glittering golden plates were filled with more dishes than usual, owing to the goal of welcoming the foreign guests, and chatter along with the scraping of cutlery echoed through the Hall.

"If you guys really wanted a welcoming atmosphere," Chey said causally while heaping potatoes onto his plate, "you'd have mesquite smoked barbeque brisket on the table."

"You are going to tone down the sardonic attitudes when you present the Goblet, aren't you?" Minerva asked as she served herself.

"I can dial it down a notch," he answered. "Why?"

"Have you forgotten already you have to improve your standing with Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime?"

"You make a good point."

"Hello there, Mister McGonagall," Ludo Bagman appeared and took the empty seat next to Chey.

"So that's what that chair's for."

"How are you this evening?"

"Hungry," he answered, skewering a sausage with his fork. "But not for long."

"Excellent," Bagman replied, probably not really honest in his enthusiasm. "Excited about the Tournament, are you?"

"More worried, really. We've got a lot going on and Murphey's Law can only take so much."

"Oh, don't be silly. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Don't start," Minerva warned Chey before he could get a word out of his mouth, leaving his mind abuzz with all possible undesirable outcomes.

After much clattering of plates and goblets, the food disappeared and the chatter died down to a murmur, which soon extinguished itself. Every seat in the hall leaned forward in anticipation.

"The moment has come," Dumbledore addressed the sea of faces staring up at him. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. First, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mister Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Mister Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

The Hall opened in a round of applause for the two ministry officials, to which Bagman graciously waved.

"Mister Bagman and Mister Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months-"

Chey couldn't help but stifle a laugh, seeing as how they needed his help to decide how to organize the tasks.

"...on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament, and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions' efforts."

There was an incredible stillness in the air, and attentions seemed to focus even more so.

"The casket, then, if you please, Mister Filch."

The caretaker shuffled up to the staff table carrying the jewel-encrusted wooden chest which held the fascinating Goblet of Fire.

"At this time, I invite our Triwizard Mediator to further explain, Mister Chey McGonagall," Dumbledore so casually handed it off to Chey as Filch set the chest upon the table in front of them.

Many confused eyes gazed upon Chey as he stood up and walked around to the front of the staff table. He chanced a glance at Fleur, but found her expression indiscernible. A nagging idea opened in his mind that perhaps Hermoine may have been right when she predicted Fleur wouldn't be as happy to see him as he thought.

"How's everyone doing?" he started pleasantly to an ocean of people in no mood for pleasantries. "Great job controlling your enthusiasm, everybody. Basically we have three champions, one from each school. The judges here," he indicated headmasters and Ministry officials behind him, "are going to grade the selected champions during three tasks spaced throughout the year that...will... uh...hang on." He consulted the roll of parchment Dumbledore had given him. "...'Test their magical prowess, daring, powers of deduction, and ability to cope with danger.'" Aside to Dumbledore, he said, "A little over dramatic, don't you think, Chief?"

The headmaster only smiled.

"Where was I...oh yeah." Chey went on. "Three schools, one champion each, which will be chosen by the Goblet of Fire. Oh, that's right."

As per Dumbledore's instructions, he tapped his wand three times on the chest, which slowly creaked open to reveal the wooden goblet, this time full to the brim with brilliant, dancing blue flames.

"Now that's cool," he said to himself, taking the goblet out of the chest and placing it on top of the closed lid. "The entry process is pretty easy. Write down your name and school on a piece of parchment and drop it into the Goblet in the next twenty-four hours. Tomorrow night, we'll find out who's lucky enough to risk life and limb for glory.

"If you're not seventeen yet, don't even try. Dumbledore here is drawing an Age Line around the Goblet when we put it in the middle of the entrance hall tonight. Seriously, you won't get past it.

"And one more thing: think long and hard about it if you're going to enter. Because if you get picked, you can't change your mind. There's no getting out. That goes double for all you hotshots out there." He looked again at the notes Dumbledore had given him. "I think that's all. Yeah, that's it."

"Now, I think it is time for bed," Dumbledore said, taking the cue. "Good night to you all."

Conversation, scraping of chairs, and footsteps towards the door filled the hall. Chey was about to follow them when Dumbledore said, "If you could linger here a few moments, we can discuss the arrangements regarding the Goblet." Chey nodded, and watched Viktor and Fleur leave the Hall with their classmates. "It won't take long," Dumbledore said, as though reading his mind. "You can meet with your friends later."

When the hall was empty of students, Chey, Minerva, Dumbledore, Moody, and Madame Maxime gathered around the Goblet, soon joined by Karkaroff who had escorted his students out of the hall in order to offer Viktor anything more to eat.

"Are we in agreement that an Age Line will suffice around the Goblet?" Dumbledore said when the hall was quiet.

"Nope," Chey said.

"I have to agree," Moody said.

"We have to account for the clever ones," Chey explained. "We'll need counters for aging potions, levitating pieces of paper, enlisting older students, and ten-foot poles with sticky tape."

"Why should we-" Karkaroff started to ask, but Chey interrupted.

"Because that's what I would do."

"I believe I can incorporate most of those protections into an Age Line," Dumbledore said. "As for older students and ten-foot poles?"

"I can set up an Intention Guard," Chey proposed, remembering the stone gargoyle in front of Dumbledore's office, "that'll stop anyone from entering another as a favor."

"You can do that, lad?" Moody asked, doubtless amazed.

"It's not hard."

"And what about ten-foot poles?" Minerva asked in her well-veiled zeal to rob Chey of other's appreciation.

"Have someone watch it tonight," he proposed. "Tomorrow the thing will be surrounded by people, so a ten-foot pole with sticky tape on the end would not go unnoticed."

"Professor Dumbly-dorr," Maxime interrupted, "I must renew my objection to Monsieur McGonagall's position as ze Mediator."

"As do I, Albus," Karkaroff added. "It is most improper to have the 'Impartial Mediator' in attendance of a competing school."

"Igor, Olympe," Dumbledore said kindly, "I have already explained at great lengths Mister McGonagall's merits as the unbiased party."

"And unless you know of someone on the outside," Minerva said, inexplicably coming to Chey's defense, "who is equally familiar with all our languages and cultures, and still holds no native ties to one or another, I'm afraid your objections have no standing."

"But they are not without merit, Minerva," Dumbledore said. "For now, Igor and Olympe, would you settle for Chey's word he will not show preference?"

There was a moment's hesitation before Maxime nodded Karkaroff answered, "For now."

"Chey, do we have your word?"

"Absolutely," he answered. "Balanced as identical twins on a see-saw."

"Excellent," Dumbledore said, sounding satisfied. "As for tonight, are we agreed I shall create the Age Line, and Mister McGonagall will set the Intention Guard?" Everyone nodded their heads in approval. "Good. Alastor, would you stand guard at the Goblet?"

"Absolutely, Professor," Moody growled.

"Splendid."

They carried the Goblet into the Entrance Hall, which still had several dozen people still mingling within, and placed it upon a stool Chey recognized as the one which held the Sorting Hat the night of the Opening Feast. Dumbledore established the shimmering, golden Age Line in a circle twenty feet wide around the Goblet, then stood back to allow Chey to draw the Intention Guard.

Having never made one before, he focused hard on replicating what he sensed at the gargoyle in front of Dumbledore's office. He knelt down, and touched his wand to the floor just outside the Age Line, and released the gathered magic into the form of a circular line, which burned bright white before disappearing.

To test his line, he pulled out a slip of parchment, and scribbled his name upon it.

"Can you do me a favor, Aunt Em?" he asked, handing her the parchment. "Can you carry this over the line for me?"

She took the parchment and walked over the invisible line, but the instant the parchment crossed the Guard, it burst into flames and burned away.

"Well, it works," he said.

"Then I think we shall retire for the night," Dumbledore said, and all but Moody dispersed.

"Chey," someone shouted his name as he started to climb the stairs.

"Hey, Viktor," Chey answered. "How you been?"

"I'm looking forvard to the Tournament a little more, if that is vhat you mean."

"Glad you could make it."

"And now your letters make sense to me."

"And they were true in every word."

"So how did they get you into this job?"

"You tell me, buddy. I still can't figure it out."

"Isn't that girl you brought to the Vorld Cup?" Viktor asked, looking across the entrance hall. It was indeed Fleur, chatting amongst her classmates. "You did not tell her you vould be here, either, did you?"

"Wanted to surprise her."

Viktor laughed knowingly and said, "I think she vill be surprised."

"How's that?"

"All vomen hate being lied to."

"Geez, it's like you and Whiskers have the same brain," Chey said, now annoyed with the naysaying. "She's gonna love seeing me, and I'll prove it."

"Go right ahead, my friend. But keep your guard up."

"Whatever. Oh, before I forget," he started to rummage in his pocket, "I picked this up after I dropped Fleur and Gabrielle off at their parents, and I went back to get my stuff. Turns out a bunch of those cart vendors had some surplus and they were selling it off at loss, so I got this."

Out of his pocket, he presented a small figurine of Viktor, which stood on his outstretched palm and scowled up at Viktor.

"I never should have agreed..." Viktor said while staring at the doll with disdain.

"Glad you like it," Chey said, handing Viktor the miniature version of himself and setting off across the entrance hall towards Fleur just as the . "Damn, I missed you, Fleur."

An intense and painful stinging seared the left side of his face.

"And you could not mention zis in a letter?"

"Your English has improved," he said, still a little confused why his face was hurting.

"You lied to me!"

"Strictly speaking, I never told you I was elsewhere..."

"You said you found a library!"

"And Hogwarts has a pretty decent one."

"Researching wandless magic?"

"A little project Aunt Em want's me to work on."

"Your fazer's car?"

"Actually was totaled by a poltergeist!"

"Zen why not tell me you were 'ere?"

"I thought you'd be surprised!"

"Oh, I wuz indeed surprised." She turned towards the door and stormed out of the entrance hall, leaving Chey very confused. Hermoine and Viktor couldn't possibly have known that would happen.

* * *

Author's note.

I hate to interrupt the tempo of the story, but on the subject of cars, my '93 Dodge Caravan has taken one too many hits. The rear bumper of a pickup made contact with the grill, which shattered and hit the AC coil, which bent and hit the radiator, which came off its mounting screws and hit the battery. And the front bumper is busted in about three places. The more my dad and I look at it, the more we find wrong with it. We've already figured it would be at least 600 dollars, and even that wouldn't guarantee it would make it to October for its emissions test, which we doubt it would pass. So, after 15 years, 205,000 miles, topping out at 22mpg, and never more than 1000 dollars at a time in maintenance, she's finished.

But it was a fighter. Sure, it had a bad lifter which ticked in cold weather, and shifted hard from first to second, and the AC belt squealed now and then, and the headlights never seemed to be aligned properly, and it would burn oil occasionally, and the left front speaker had a tear which rattled with heavy bass, and when the fan kicked in the whole car would shake. But it got my ass to school and work. It could haul all manner of things. We've used it to move lumber, masonry, stone dust, boy scouts, girl scouts, a ditch digger, skis, a snowboard, bikes, beach gear, camping gear, furniture, a homebuilt rowboat, video production equipment, and loud obnoxious children (myself included) througout the years. Best part of it: IT HAD LEGROOM!

The shame of the incident comes after my cousin and I put in new spark plugs and ignition wires. It even had fairly new tires and recently replaced radiator.

Sigh. Now I'm off to scour Craigslist. (Please, no offers. I'll find something local.)

But yes, as for the story, there you have it. Fleur is mad at Chey. I know many of you were looking forward to that.

-Termite


	41. Chapter 41, Pendulum

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Forty-One

Pendulum

* * *

"That is a lot of vork."

"Tell me about it."

It was the next morning which found Chey and Viktor outside the castle, admiring Peeve's trademark destruction the Charger's engine compartment.

"How long do you suppose it vill take to rebuild?"

"Ed keeps telling me 'two weeks,' but we keep finding new damage to critical parts. I think the little bugger keeps coming back at night and breaking more stuff. We already had to unbend the crankshaft and seal a cracked radiator, and last weekend we had to use a spell to take off the bastard's excuse for poetry."

"And vhat vill you do if you need new parts?"

"I just call up Leonard Byrne."

"The friend of your father's who has charge of the estate, yes?"

"That's Lenny."

"Vhat does he do all day if his job is to look after your father's cars?"

"He has a family and he does get to take some of the cars out for a spin, so it's not like he just sits around waiting for something to gather dust. And he runs a micro brewery that makes a pretty kickass lager. A week back I asked him to send us a case."

A chilled breeze picked up around the grounds, so the two of them went inside for a quick breakfast. Inside the entrance hall was a crowd of about twenty people surrounding the Goblet, applauding whenever someone entered their name. At the moment of Chey and Viktor's entry, each and every Beauxbatons student was entering their names into the Goblet, its bright blue flames flashing red and showering sparks with every piece of parchment dropped into the old wooden cup.

"How hard did your girlfriend hit you?" Viktor asked.

"Who says she was even mad at all?"

"Naturally, you vouldn't admit you vere wrong. I vill just ask her."

Much to Chey's stifled protest, Viktor called Fleur over to them. She inexplicably smiled at Chey as she crossed the hall towards them, her sheet of silvery hair flowing behind her.

"Bonjour, Chey, Viktor," she said, her tone unusually pleasant compared to the night before.

"Did you sleep vell, Fleur?" Viktor asked in an equally pleasant manner.

"I am afraid not," she answered. "Eet wuz bitterly cold in ze carriage. You 'ave entered in ze Tournament, Viktor?"

"Early this morning. Yourself?"

"Just now."

"Timeout!" Chey snapped. "I thought you were mad at me?"

"Oh, zat's right," Fleur said, now with compassion. "I did not 'urt you, did I?"

"What?"

"Would you excuse us, Viktor?" Fleur asked.

"Absolutely," Viktor agreed. Fleur then led him briefly down a side corridor which was less populated.

"Yes, it seems I was a bit too forceful," she said in French, touching his left cheek and not really looking him in the eye. "It's still a little red from where I slapped you."

"You never change your mind this fast. What the hell?"

"I've realized," she said, now smoothing the creases in his cloak, "that, though foolish your actions were, you were just trying to surprise me." Her tone now became malicious as she said, "And I know that you now understand full well that if you try that again I will burn you to a crisp."

She held her hand up to his face, and a bright orange ball of fire appeared, lighting up both their faces.

"You've figured out Veela's Fire, haven't you?" Chey asked.

"The veela at the World Cup inspired me," she answered, extinguishing the flame.

"That doesn't sound like the only reason."

"You had your wandless magic project, and I had mine."

"You couldn't put any of this in a letter?"

"What does that matter?"

"Pendulum swings both ways."

"You never told me you were here, so as you would say, we're square."

"You didn't know I was lying at the time, so you were acting of your own volition!"

"So you admit you were lying?"

"No I don't!"

"You said yourself you were lying to me."

Chey was stuck. He knew she would never let that one slide, so his best bet would be to divert the accusations back into her side of the court.

"And I've yet to hear you deny lying to me."

"_I_ wanted to surprise you."

"Oh, so when you lie it means you're planning a surprise but when I lie it's because I'm dirty rotten evil son of a bitch."

"Yes. And again, you've admitted you lied to me."

"God dammit."

"But I'm willing to forgive that lapse in judgement-"

"Then why chew me out?"

"Provided you promise never to do that again."

"Personally I think a little mystery adds dynamic to a relationship."

"Do you ever want me to speak to you again?"

"As if you could resist," Chey said as mockingly egotistically as anyone could.

"So you swear?"

"Come on. Isn't it kind of a silly thing to promise-"

"Have you forgotten?" she asked, again conjuring a fireball.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, retracting a bit as she held the flames closer to his face.

"Excellent," she said, smiling pleasantly once more and snuffing out the flames.

"You have got to teach me that."

"We will see," she said playfully, embracing and finally and kissing him.

Aloud clearing of the throat came from the end of the corridor. They look in that direction and saw Edward with a duly impressed look about his face.

"So," he said, as though vaguely ashamed to be interrupting them, "we're not working on the Charger today, are we?"

"I don't think so," Chey said. "Oh yeah. Uh, Fleur, this is Edward. He's helping me fix up my dad's car. And Ed, this is-"

"The knockout?"

"Y...yeah."

"She is out of Weasley's league. Nice to meet you."

"Enchanté," she said, her voice returning to the haughtiness Chey remembered from when he first met her.

"Guess that fuel pump will have to wait, Ed," Chey said.

"That's okay," Edward dismissed it. Turning to leave, he said with a smirk, "I'm sure there are some other Beauxbatons girls who could use a tour guide."

"'E seems...unique," Fleur said, as though trying to sound polite.

"Hey, he can fix cars," Chey said. "That's good enough for me."

* * *

For the almost the entire day, Chey was bothered by of age and underage students alike. The ones too young wanted to know how to get past the Age Line, and those who could legally enter wanted to bribe, threaten, and otherwise convince him to make the Goblet select them. These constant interruptions began to wear on Fleur's nerves, so she elected to return to the Beauxbatons carriage while Chey fended off further annoyances.

Knowing there would be no end to the persistence of champion hopefuls, Chey decided to simply wait in the entrance hall and tell anyone who bothered him to just figure it out for themselves.

A high point in the day came just after lunch when Derrick of Slytherin House approached the Goblet with two slips of parchment clutched in his hand. Before he even crossed the golden age line, a brilliant white circle representing the Intention Guard appeared on the ground, and the parchment in his hand burst into white-hot flames, and it was all Derrick could do to stop from screaming at the top of his lungs, so he diverted that energy to running through the halls, looking for something to soothe the burnt skin on his hand, much to the amusement of many observers.

Several underage students tried various methods of overcoming Dumbledore's Age Line. Half a dozen attempted Aging Potions, just as Chey predicted. They were swiftly thrown backward and given lengthy and comical beards. Every one of the levitating slips immediately crumpled and fell just outside the golden circle, and the one fifth year who actually tried using a ten foot pole had it slip from his fingers and catch him hard in the stomach.

As there was only a twenty-four hour window for which champion hopefuls could enter their names, Chey could not spend longer watching the hilarity of rejection. Seven o'clock rolled around soon enough, and the castle was ensconced in a second feast less than a day after the first.

The candle-lit hall was now illuminated by carved pumpkins in Halloween fashion, and the Goblet had been moved from the entrance hall to where it sat the night before in front of the staff table, at which Bagman and Crouch had once again joined them for the feast. Though energy was high in the Hall, few seemed to be interested in eating. In fact, the only one who appeared at all concerned about the food in front of him was Edward, and that was only between glances at the Beauxbatons girls at the Ravenclaw table. It seemed he made for an excellent tour guide.

At last, after what some may have considered to be an eternity, the golden plates were cleared to spotlessness. As Dumbledore got to his feet, the stillness of the night before returned to the Hall in full measure.

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," Dumbledore said. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber where they will be receiving their first instructions."

Minerva elbowed Chey in the side, reminding him he was to be in the next chamber, awaiting the champions, so he left the table and walked through the door accordingly, shutting it behind him.

This room was smaller, lit only by a few torches and a healthy fire. Chey felt a little more clear-headed in this room, perhaps owing to its lower quantity of magical interference. This was the first time since arriving at the school he could pay attention to the magic around him without getting a headache. It was possible the room rarely saw magic cast within its walls.

Silence pressed in from the Great Hall beyond the door for maybe two minutes. Then Chey heard applause from the Hall. It persisted a moment, then Viktor walked through the door, wearing the closest thing to a smile Chey had ever seen him show.

"You got it, buddy?" Chey asked.

"Durmstrang champion," Viktor answered, clasping hands with Chey.

"Karkaroff must be thrilled."

"Vat more can you expect from him from at this point?"

"Nepotism?" Chey suggested, and they shared a laugh.

A second applause broke out from the Hall, and through the door walked Fleur, who immediately rushed forward and wrapped her arms around Chey in a celebratory embrace.

"This is a pleasant surprise," he said.

"L'arrêter, vous," she chastised him. "You knew eet would be moi."

"I may have had a gut feeling."

"Congratulations, Fleur," Viktor said.

"And you as well, Viktor."

A third round of applause, twice as loud as the first, came forth from the Hall, drowning out the sound of the door opening and Cedric entering the room. Chey left Fleur's embrace and welcomed him.

"Hey, Cedric," Chey said. "You made it!"

"Yeah," Cedric said, surprised but excited. "Who would've thought, right?"

"Ah, they'll let anybody compete these days," Chey said. "Okay, that's three heads, so we got everybody now. Fleur, Viktor, you already know each other, so I'll introduce you to Cedric Diggory. And Cedric, this is Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum."

"Nice to meet you," Cedric said.

"Pleasure," Fleur said, and Viktor nodded as they shook hands.

"And my job just got a little easier," Chey said, "seeing I'm already on friendly terms with all three of you."

"And just how is it all three champions are friends of your's?" Viktor wondered.

"Honest, buddy," Chey said, "I would not have called that at all."

"So you were telling the truth back there," Cedric said.

"What?"

"At the World Cup, you said you knew Viktor Krum."

"Yeah, that's right," Chey said, remembering.

"So that wasn't thick-headed boasting."

"It actually crossed your mind that it might be?"

"Well...yeah."

Chey thought for a moment, then admitted, "Yeah, I can understand why you'd think that. Okay, might as well get to the next agenda item. The first task will-"

The door opened once again, and for a fleeting instant Chey assumed that coming through the door would be the Tournament officials: Dumbledore, Maxime, Karkaroff, Bagman and Crouch. But the one person entering that door was nothing like any of the Tournament officials. In fact, he wasn't even an adult.

It was Harry, and he seemed strangely distant.

"What's going on, Specks?" Chey asked, but Harry said nothing, only stared straight ahead, not really looking at anything. "Specks?"

Suddenly, the door flew open again, and in walked Bagman.

"Extraordinary!" Bagman said excitedly, grabbing Harry by the arm and leading him forward. "Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen...lady," he addressed Chey and the others. "May I introduce – incredible though it may seem – the _fourth_ Triwizard champion?"

* * *

Author's note.

And there we have it: a cliffhanger but you already know what's going to happen. I know most people don't like reading parts of fanfictions that are just taken from the source. I know I don't like reading them, and I especially don't like writing them. That's why this chapter (as well as the two before and the next one) were hard to write. Chapter 42 (up next) took an excess of three weeks to complete because, let me tell you, paraphrasing is hard when you have to do it for five pages!

Fortunately, a great deal of the copying is done for now, and the next few chapters should be mostly original scenario, especially now that Fleur and Viktor have arrived.

These days, I realize I have less free time than a year ago, so I'm dropping the release of new chapters to every two weeks.

Oh, and an update from last chapter: I have reliable transportation now! Got a used Pontiac Sunfire a week back and, while I haven't yet figured out how to set the clock, serves its purpose quite well. I think I'll call it "Eddie" (except on Sunday, he shall be known as "Edward"), in honor of Edward Bishop, Chey's car guy while he's at Hogwarts.

As for the Caravan, the insurance company has considered it a total loss and towed it away. I was at school at the time, which is probably a good thing, because I probably would have cried.

But enough about my car issues. How about you, readers? I would have thought at least one person would talk about Fleur slapping Chey in the face! Where'd you guys go?

-Termite


	42. Chapter 42, An Unexpected Result

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Forty-Two

An Unexpected Result

* * *

"That's not funny."

"No no, I mean it," Bagman said hastily and still just as excited. "Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!"

"...That can't happen," Chey said. "There's no way that could happen with everything we put in place." This was impossible. He had checked Dumbledore's Age Line himself, even seen it in action, and the Intention Guard worked perfectly. Adding to that, no one could have gotten past Moody, and someone definitely would have noticed an underage student, especially with a face as recognizable as Harry's, getting close to the Goblet during the day. Most damning of all evidence against the possibility of Harry's name erupting from the Goblet was the fact Chey could not sense even the slightest bit of the Age Line's magic from Harry, meaning there was no way he crossed the line.

"Chey..." said Viktor from behind him. All the first three champions looked just as surprised as Chey felt.

Suddenly, Chey was being spoken to in two different languages, Russian from Viktor and French from Fleur, all while Cedric stood to the side, looking incredibly confused.

"What's going on?" Viktor said, concerned. "I thought there were safeguards for this sort of thing."

"I want an answer, Chey," Fleur said with incredible anxiety, her aura threatening to flare up. "The boy is too young!"

"Didn't you make sure everything was okay?"

"He looks to be only fourteen!"

"Stop!" Chey finally said in the common language they all understood, raising his hands. At that moment, the door opened once more, and in walked Dumbledore, Maxime, Karkaroff, Crouch, Minerva and Snape, the buzzing of a hundred students leaking through the doorway before it was closed. "Finally. Chief, I want answers! How is it we have two champions from one school, and why is Bagman acting like this is a good thing?"

"Well, I don't think there's any ducking out at this stage," Bagman said. "It's down in the rules, you're obliged...Harry will just have to do the best he can."

At these words, Karkaroff and Maxime looked scandalized.

"Oui, Dumbly-dorr," Maxime said, standing up to her full height and brushing the chandelier with her head. "I would like some an-sers as well."

"I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions," Karkaroff said, smiling as though he'd just caught someone in the middle of an illegal act, "or have I not read the rules carefully enough?"

"C'est impossible," Maxime said. "'Ogwarts cannot 'have two champions. It is most injust."

"We were under the impression that your Age Line-" Karkaroff started to say.

"The Age Line worked!" Chey interrupted. "I've been watching it all day, and no one got past it."

"You underestimate Potter's penchant for rule breaking," Snape said, his tone holding an exceptional amount of malice when he said Harry's name. "He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here-"

"Thank you, Severus," Dumbledore said, and Snape was silent. Not just any kind of silent, Snape was obediently silent. Dumbledore then spoke very calmly to Harry, "Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?"

"No," Harry said, and to Chey he seemed afraid of the very real possibility that someone might assume he was lying.

"Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?" Dumbledore asked, maintaining his calm demeanor.

"No!" was Harry's desperate answer.

"Ah, but of course 'e is lying!" Maxime cried.

"Have you no faith in my nephew?" Minerva accosted Maxime. "I understand you are not fond of him, but surely you cannot deny he made an effective Intention Guard."

"Yes, we all saw it work last night," said Bagman.

"Dumbly-dorr must 'ave made a mistake wiz ze line," Maxime reached for an answer.

"It's possible, of course," Dumbledore said politely.

"There was nothing wrong with the line," Chey snapped. "I saw it work all day."

"Surely not all day." Karkaroff said. "You must have missed something at least."

"I'm telling you, this kid never entered his name!" Chey protested. "I can't sense the Age Line on him, so he never crossed it!"

"A claim none of us can verify," Snape pointed out.

"And of course you would defend him, McGonagall," said Karkaroff. "You are partial to this school, so you would influence the Tournament to grant Hogwarts two chances at a win."

"I'm on the same set of stairs as you are, Karkaroff," Chey said. "I don't want Specks in the Tournament any more than you do."

"'Zen why excuse the little boy?" Fleur rounded on him.

"Because by establishing what's impossible, we can get closer to the truth," Chey answered. "I could have sworn you'd understand that, at least." Fleur looked affronted by Chey's words.

"Really, what nonsense!" Minerva said angrily. "We've established already that Harry could not have crossed the line himself, and, not to mention we've agreed it would be impossible, as Dumbledore believes that he did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I'm sure that should be good enough for everybody else!"

No one seemed able to argue Minerva's point.

"Mister Crouch... Mister Bagman," Karkaroff said with an overly flattering voice, "you are our – er – objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?"

Bagman made no response but to wipe a handkerchief over his face and look over to Crouch, who stood apart from the group. Now that Chey noticed him properly, and in this room of lower magical interference, something seemed off about Crouch. He didn't look any different, nor did his demeanor change. It just seemed like something was following him, though nothing Chey could discern.

"We must follow the rules," he said in his usually terse voice, "and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament."

Chey could not believe what he was hearing. Here, Bartemius Crouch, the very man who bypassed a fundamental aspect of the justice system to send Sirius Black to prison, was now being a stickler for the rules and risk the well-being of a fourteen year-old boy. More disturbing was how excited Bagman was to hear the news.

"Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front," Bagman said with finality. Maxime and Karkaroff looked scandalized.

"Resubmit the names," Chey said, certain this would be an agreeable solution. "Set the Goblet back up and we'll monitor who tries to enter in a controlled setting."

"Mister McGonagall," Bagman said, "I'm afraid it doesn't work like that. See, the Goblet of Fire's just gone out. I-it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament-"

"In which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!" Karkaroff lashed out. "After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!"

"Empty threat, Karkaroff," growled a voice from near the door. Moody began to limp toward the group gathered around the fire. "You can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. 'There's no getting out,' like McGonagall said."

"Do you ever listen to me?" Chey accosted Karkaroff.

"Rather convenient, eh?" Moody said.

"Convenient?" Karkaroff wondered. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody." On this rare occasion, he and Chey were of the same mind. There was nothing convenient about this at all Chey could think about, only the inconvenience of finding a fourth dragon and having to sit through this conversation.

"Don't you?" said Moody quite patiently. It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out."

"Son of a bitch," Chey said. He'd never considered that a contestant might be entered without their knowledge. If he'd known that, he would have factored it into the Intention Guard. "Who would try to make someone else compete?"

"Someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!" Maxime said indignantly.

"I quite agree, Madame Maxime," said Karkaroff. "I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards-"

"If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Potter," Moody interrupted, "but...funny thing...I don't hear _him_ saying a word..."

"Why should 'e complain?" Fleur lashed out in a degree of frustration she once reserved for dealing with Chey before they had reconciled. "'e 'as ze chance to compete, 'asn't 'e? We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money – zis is a chance many would die for!"

"Is that what you're saying, Moody?" Chey asked. "Someone want Specks to compete hoping he will die for it?" Fleur immediately lost her air of frustration, and now looked somewhat scared for the boy.

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Moody growled.

A tense silence, not unlike the ones which emanated from the Great Hall between each congratulatory applause for a chosen champion, hung low in the room, the crackling of the fire trying desperately to fill in the gap.

"Moody, old man," Bagman said nervously, "what a thing to say!"

"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime," Karkaroff said with disdain. "Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination too. An odd quality in a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Dumbledore, but no doubt you had your reasons."

"I don't hear you coming up with any ideas, Karkaroff," Chey said in Moody's defense, feeling the only way to come out of the debate unscathed was to latch onto any plausible explanation.

"It was a skilled witch or wizard who put the boy's name in that goblet." Moody started to explain. "It would have needed an exceptionally strong Confundus Charm to bamboozle that goblet into forgetting that only three schools compete in the tournament..."

"Not necessarily," Chey interrupted, finally having something useful to say.

"How so, boy?" Moody growled.

"The Goblet doesn't know how to count," Chey said. No one really seemed to understand what this meant, so he continued. "The spell on the Goblet lets it collect names and sort them according to school. There's nothing that lets it stop at three schools. If someone did want Specks in this thing, they just need to write down a fourth school."

"Anyone who read Skeeter's article about you had a ready-made list of schools from which to choose," Minerva said.

"So it was someone who knew this fact about the Goblet," Chey said. "And it's hard to legally prove who knows what these days."

"How this situation arose, we do not know," Dumbledore addressed everyone. "It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do..."

"Ah, but Dumbly-dorr-"

"My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it."

Maxime said nothing, but contented to stare Dumbledore down. Karkaroff and Snape also both looked quite upset by the decision. Contrasting them was Bagman, who didn't lose any enthusiasm whatsoever.

"Well, shall we crack on then?" he said, smiling. "Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Mister McGonagall?"

Chey nodded, but inside he hated the way things turned out. The plan was to give these instructions to three champions, not four. If someone had circumvented the safeguards this early in the game, what was to come down the road? The Tournament was dangerous enough, but now that a an underage fourth champion was in the running, the tiger had grown an extra row of teeth.

"Well, there's not much to tell you," Chey said to the selected four, "because the idea is to keep you in the dark. You'll go into the first task without any knowledge so we can test how you handle a risky situation right off the bat. It's really all about how headstrong you can be. Or boneheaded. But both can be construed as courage, right?"

The three champions who knew Chey better smiled, but Harry looked uneasy.

"It's gonna be on November twenty-fourth, right in front of everyone, judges and fellow students alike.

"You guys can't ask for help. And you can't accept it. This means teachers, classmates, friends, random people in the halls, or even your cat, Fluffy. You're allowed one tool for the duration of the task, and if you're smart, you already carry it everywhere like I do."

"Our wands," Fleur said.

"That's it," Chey said. "For task number two, we're going to keep you in the dark again, but only until the end of the first task. And just because you guys are so special, you get to skip your final exams." He looked at Dumbledore and said, "That's all that was on the notes you gave me, unless the doodle of a hippogrif wearing socks means anything."

"That is all, Mister McGonagall, thank you," Dumbledore said. "Now it is quite late, young champions, and we must not deprive your classmates the chance to congratulate you."

Dumbledore then invited Bagman and Crouch to stay for a drink, to which Crouch gave a half-hearted excuse of having work piling up at the office.

Chey wanted to have another chance to speak to Viktor and Fleur, but their headmasters had quickly escorted them out of the room, followed, hesitantly, by Harry and Cedric. Chey decided to leave as well, but stopped as he was passing by Moody, for an idea had just come to him. Wrong-doers normally try to distance themselves from attention, so...

"Hey Moody," he said, "If someone was trying to bypass a rule, they would do it when there weren't a bunch of people around to watch. That would've been in the dead of night..."

"A few first years decided to test the Age Line," Moody growled, "but no one crossed it who shouldn't have."

"Dammit."

"You were smart to ask," Moody complimented. "Shows the sharp mind of an auror."

"Takes more than a nugget of esteem to get me into your line of work."

At least the list of suspects was a little smaller. A person who was not a student certainly would not have crossed the Age Line unnoticed by Moody and a hall full of people. The profile of whomever had put Harry's name into the Goblet was now limited to a student at one of the three schools of at least seventeen years in age, holding knowledge of the Goblet's inner workings, and with, if Moody's logic was to believed, an axe to grind against Harry.

As he left the room, he thought he might be able to pick up some clues by sensing the area around which the Goblet was placed. One step out of the room and into the Great Hall convinced him otherwise, however, as he was immediately assaulted by magical interference, his once clear head in a fog once again.

He saw Harry and Cedric in the entrance hall, and felt he owed them an explanation, but came up with none, yet he was compelled to say something.

"Hey Ced, Specks," he said, catching up to them, "Listen, I don't know how this happened, but I want you to know that I'm going to try as hard as I can to make sure nothing else goes wrong. And Specks, there's got to be some loophole I can use to get you out of the Tournament, so the minute I find one, you'll be the first to know. When that happens, you just say the word and I'll get you out, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks," Harry said, seemingly taken aback by the show of support.

"Sure thing."

* * *

Author's note.

I hate modern art. When you think about it, it's just a way for people who can't draw to make oodles of cash out of nothing thanks to saps like us.

-Termite


	43. Chapter 43, Talking About the Champions

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Forty-Three

Talking About the Champions

* * *

"Wake up, Yank."

Someone's heel caught Chey in the stomach and woke him up. He had fallen asleep in a chair by a window in the Gryffindor common room after spending hours awake the night before, pondering the impossible task of finding the one responsible for entering Harry's name.

"Wondered where you got to," Edward said, seemingly the only one who could have kicked Chey. "Didn't see you at all after the feast."

"Heard there was a party going on in here last night," Chey answered, "felt like avoiding it."

"What for?"

"Last party I went to ended in me beating someone half to death."

"I think its time for some scotch," Edward said, making to pull the disguised bottle from his bag as he did whenever Chey's past came to light.

"No, no, he had it coming. And his friend. But we all gave as good as we got."

"When was this?"

"Expulsion number three."

"I thought they technically weren't expulsions?"

"They were, but everyone around here keeps forgetting."

"...So why bother reminding them, right?"

"Exactly."

Edward seemed to be understanding Chey more and more each day, and Chey was finding it easier to talk to him. It was by no means a great friendship they shared, but more along the lines of two regular visitors to a bar who spoke to each other very often, only because their favorite seats at the counter were next to each other, but never made contact outside the common gathering place.

"How did it happen?" Edward asked.

"What, the fight four years ago?"

"No, last night," Edward corrected.

"There was a fight last night?"

"No, I'm talking about the champions. How is it all of them are your friends?"

"Say what?"

"You, Diggory and I help each other in Flitwick's Charms class."

"Sure, but it's not like either of you are in my will."

"You and Krum were talking in the entrance hall the other night."

"Are you seriously going to argue Viktor isn't the right guy for the position?"

"Potter and yourself get along pretty well."

"I fought like hell to get him un-selected, but of course you didn't see that."

"I saw you snogging the Beauxbatons girl!"

"And I'm very happy she was selected. You going somewhere with this?" Chey said, getting annoyed.

"Quite a coincidence that all four champions in the Tournament are close friends of your's, isn't it?"

"Dammit, if you're going to accuse me of fixing the results, come out and say it!"

"I'm not saying you did, but someone will."

"Come again?"

"You know all those dozens of people who weren't selected to be champion of their school?"

"Yeah, real sad story for them to put in their memoirs." Chey said. "What do I care?"

"They're going to be asking these same questions."

Edward was smart like that. He always had a tendency to know how people's brains worked. These weren't accusations he was making, it was a warning. And he was right. Losing a contest would bring out the worst in some, and, at the same time, lead the rest to accept any plausible explanation that came their way. The very coincidence that all four champions would call him a friend at the drop of a hat would conceivably lead one to believe that the Goblet of Fire's methodology for selecting a champion could have been a matter of who considered Chey a worthy enough person for whom they would donate a kidney.

"So you're just asking them in advance so I can come up with a good answer, is that right?"

"Precisely," Edward said, and Chey now regretting sweating him about the accusatory tone.

"Well, uh, sorry for snapping at you."

"Don't worry about it." Edward was always very understanding. "So what would you say to the prats?"

"To be honest, I don't know. I mean, I looked at the goblet myself. Nothing can tamper with its selection process."

"So you think it was coincidence then?"

"If one of my friends was a champion, I'd find it cool. Two is a coincidence, if not a happy one. Three champions being friends of mine raises one or two red flags."

"What about the fourth?" Edward asked, as though he'd caught Chey in a miscount.

"You can't count Specks."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"Moody figures someone has it in for the kid."

"Always knew the man was a nutter."

"Seriously, you ought to listen to your headmaster more closely."

"You mean all he said about the Tournament being dangerous and all?"

"Moody said whoever entered Speck's name is counting on that element of danger."

"You don't think Potter entered himself?"

"Evidence says he didn't."

Edward stalled a moment, then said, "I'll grant you that, but Dumbledore said there would be better safety this go around."

"I swear, it's like your entire country is oblivious to chaos theory. There are too many variables to predict a clear outcome. Something is bound to go wrong as per Murphy's Law."

"Then you don't believe it's safe this year just based on the idea it is never safe?"

"No, I'm saying that if everything was going to go right, Speck's name never would have been mentioned at all last night."

"Then Potter's name coming out of the Goblet is a bad omen." Edward summarized.

"In a way, yeah."

They reflected on this for a moment as other Gryffindors moved about the common room, either milling around discussing the good fortune of a Gryffindor champion or drifting blearily from their dormitories to the portrait hole for a laid-back Sunday breakfast.

"Well, I'm about ready to devour a hippogrif," Edward said. "How are you on the hunger side of things?"

"I'm starving like a fish is thirsty. Let's go." Chey answered.

* * *

Tone in the Great Hall was elevated compared to the morning before, doubtless due to the unprecedented fourth Triwizard champion. As Chey and Edward walked along the tables they caught snippets of discussions about how Harry bested Dumbledore's Age Line, how the tasks will change now that there was a fourth competitor, and several of age students unselected for the position of school champion schemed to lace their champion's pumpkin juice with a laxative.

Cedric caught up with them and told them that, while everyone in Hufflepuff house was delighted for him (albeit upset about Harry stealing a bit of his thunder), he'd been informed that Derrick and Montegue from Slytherin had already posed the idea that the champions had been selected based, not on their merit, but by their relationship with Chey. Edward exchanged looks with Chey when this was said, and now Chey was convinced he'd better come up with a plausible explanation for the coincidence quickly, lest the whole school assume just that.

Knowing the Charger's fuel pump couldn't wait much longer, Chey and Edward went to work. Later, Fleur found them and watched them reassemble the many components of the muscle car torn asunder.

Before long, a second-year Ravenclaw girl approached them meekly with a slip of parchment. She seemed very hesitant about coming any closer than ten feet to them (understandable, for she was a lone twelve year old and they were three towering teenagers of seventeen), but finally relented, giving Chey the note and scampering away back in through the double oak doors.

The note didn't have to be signed, because there was always a disapproved tone to Minerva's handwriting: "Come to my office right away, Chey. Your father's car can wait."

"Looks like my disappointed aunt wants a word," he said. He answered Edward's questioning gaze by saying, "I shouldn't be too long. You can keep working on the alternator if you want."

"Eez it fine eef I join you?" Fleur asked.

"Don't see any harm," Chey said. "Nothing on here about coming alone and it's probably best if there's a witness." Neither one of them caught the joke.

After walking the winding halls, Chey and Fleur found themselves outside Minerva's office. Two voices were coming from behind the closed door, one definitely Minerva's but both too muffled to discern their words.

His first instinct was to open the door, but curiosity stopped him. Whoever Minerva was talking to could very well be the reason she wanted to have a word with him, so it would be to his benefit to know who it was beforehand.

He pressed his hand to the door and cast the eavesdropping charm. Fleur interpreted his action and followed suit, touching her wand to the door like she learned from Chey the previous year.

"I don't think now is an appropriate time to tell him this," came Minerva's voice, clear as though there were no door between them.

"All due respect, Miss Minerva, it's not for you to decide," said the second voice, a mild and very polite Carolina accent hanging on his words. "And to be perfectly honest, I don't think you're the best judge of what he's ready to understand."

"Are you saying I don't know my own nephew?"

"Now, I never said anything of the kind-"

"I spent more time with him than anyone else!"

"If I'm not mistaken, ma'am, that honor belongs to our dear departed friend, Jimmy. You haven't exactly been a major figure in the boy's life."

"Despite teaching much of the year, I still came to America every Summer to be with him!"

"I understand you had your obligations here, but that's an awful long time away from the boy."

"Who was it, then, that taught him everything he knows about transfiguration?"

"You did indeed, and I respect that," said the stranger, defusing Minerva's unusually heated temper. "But you can't deny the boy's grown up since then."

"William would not have him hear this so soon."

"I know that, Miss Minerva, but Will also believed the sooner you know something the better prepared you'll be."

"Mister Secretary, we are not alone," said a third voice, this one very calm and quiet and straight out of Alabama.

"How's that, Jackson?" the Carolina man said.

"Two shadows under the door," came yet a fourth voice, and the attitude in his voice left no doubt he was from the streets of Brooklyn.

The two eavesdroppers released their spells just as the door opened, and Chey and Fleur found themselves at the wandpoint of a man who appeared from just inside. His face was hardened with concentration, his eyes fixed upon their targets from behind sun-bleached blonde hair. He didn't wear a single article of clothing that wasn't black, from the military style tactical vest, combat boots and long trench coat which seemed to be concealing something slung under his right arm.

"Door clear!" he announced in a voice not matching any previously overheard to everyone in the office.

The door opened wider to let them in and revealed a total of six people standing in Minerva's office. There was Minerva, of course, behind her desk in her usual robed attire and square-rimmed glasses. Then there were four men, including the man who had opened the door, all wearing the same black combat wear and trench coats, and all seemingly concealing something beneath those black coats. In addition to the blonde-haired man by the door, there was one behind the door with neat black hair and a slouching posture, wand in hand and hastily but efficiently stowing something else under his coat at his side.

These two men shuffled Chey and Fleur in the door, then rushed into the hallway, each with wands drawn a different direction down the hallway.

"Clear left," said the blonde-haired man, followed by the dark-haired man with the Brooklyn accent saying, "Clear right." They then returned to the office and locked the door behind them. Only then could Chey get a look at the other two in black coats. One was in the back. He had messy black hair, wiry frame, a gaunt face and black, empty looking eyes. The fourth man in a black coat was just the opposite. His face was handsome with reddish brown eyes, swept brown hair and a medium build, looking kind of like a cliche fighter pilot from the movies.

The last person in the room wore a dark grey suit and tie, black dress shoes and was solidly built with hair beginning to grey and recede. Standing in front of Minerva's desk, next to a chair with a long light-brown coat draped over its back, he said in a polite Carolina accent, "Happy birthday, Mister McGonagall."

* * *

Author's note.

Okay, so my stab at a two week update turned into a three weeks. But it's hard to stay focused when your head is buzzing with ideas for other fics. One of them is a Zoids fanfic, and my character (original) already looks pretty solid. Just need to find time to write this stuff down.

I've started rebuilding my personal website, termitestudios (dot) com. While I'm rebuilding, the old one will stay up for everyone to look at.

That's about all that's new. I'll try my best to keep writing, so long as everyone keeps reading and sending me feedback.

-Termite.


	44. Chapter 44, Mr Secretary

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Forty-Four

Mr. Secretary

* * *

"You're a day early," Chey replied.

"Am I really to blame if England's Minister of Magic wants an all-day conference tomorrow?" said the man before him.

"You never told me your birthday is tomorrow," Fleur said to him in French

"Here we go," Chey droned.

"A year we've known each other and not once did you mention it!"

"Last year, it was when you had just stopped hating my existence, and at this particular point in time, you're still mad at me, so I figured 'Why stir things up?'" he answered in French. "Any other time, it wasn't relevant."

She raised her hand threateningly, as if to summon another fireball, but she stopped herself and consented to wave a finger in a warning fashion.

"This must be the president of your fan club," said the middle-aged Carolina man. "The delightful Miss Fleur Delacour, if I'm not mistaken."

"And you are?" she asked him, shifting her attention from Chey and assuming the more pompous and arrogant attitude which was so very characteristic of her.

"Department of Sorcery, Creatures Division Chief Warren Forsythe," Chey answered for him. "He certified my Class Echo."

"And walked you through the animagus registration," Forsythe added, "and pulled some strings to get you early apparition clearance."

"What, you didn't think I could get clearance myself?" Chey accosted him.

"Regulations prohibit a thirteen year old boy from getting permission to appear and disappear as per his own discretion," Forsythe said almost mockingly. "Imagine the trouble he could get himself into: breaking into candy shops, liquor stores..."

"Girl's locker rooms?" Chey suggested. Forsythe smiled.

"But as I've read lately, you, sir, didn't need to apparate to get into trouble." The man stared Chey down with the same smile on his face, and Chey thought that sounded like a reprimand rather than admiration.

"So who are the spooks?" Chey asked, changing the subject. "Bodyguards?"

"I don't take a bullet for nobody," said the black-haired Brooklyn man.

"That's enough, Bulldog," came the Alabama accent of the wiry, gaunt-looking man in the back. It was the same voice Forsythe had referred to as "Jackson."

Chey was about to ask what the problem was, when the cliche fighter pilot said, "Bodyguards take a bullet. Security detail stops bullets from leaving the barrel."

"Okay," Chey said, still not seeing the difference, "but that's a lot of 'security detail' for just a Creatures Division chief."

"You don't get a whole lot of news from back home, do you, boy?" Forsythe asked.

"Nah, you know how self-centered they are over here," Chey said facetiously. "All anybody in Europe ever talks about is other people in Europe."

"Chey, Mister Forsythe was appointed Secretary of Sorcery early last September," Minerva said.

"And I still haven't heard any congratulations, Miss Minerva," Forsythe commented.

"Van Buren finally retired?" Chey asked. Come to think of it, he'd gotten a letter from the Secretary's office back in September. This must have been what the words meant.

"In a way," Forsythe said. "'Retired' can mean a lot of things. 'Public outcry for dismissal,' for instance."

"I thought Adams and Clay were the shoo ins," Chey remarked.

"The other division chiefs thought Adams was too aged and Clay was too controversial. Seeing my hat was the only one left in the ring, they defaulted to me."

"Okay then. But the question I was going to ask still stands. What the hell are you doing here."

"Miss Minerva here was kind enough to write me about what you've been up to, so I thought I might wander on down here and congratulate you for being the first Triwizard Mediator from the States."

Chey paused for a moment, stunned by the mediocrity of the reason behind a trans-Atlantic voyage. "Aunt Em interrupted rebuilding the Charger for this?" he said, disappointed.

"Just about."

"I'm gonna leave now," Chey said, and started to leave.

"Since when did 'just about' start to mean 'that was all?'" Chey stopped. "I still have something to tell you, boy."

Minerva looked ready to interrupt, but steeled herself and frowned.

"Nothing you couldn't write it in that stupidly arbitrary letter?" Chey said.

"So you did get that," Forsythe said, smiling. "The red-tail came back without anything, so we assumed you either got it or it was lost. Goddam, Minerva, y'all can't figure a better way to talk to each other over here? Can't pick up a phone once in a while?"

"Getting impatient, here."

"Some things are too important to put in writing, Chey," Forsythe returned to the subject at hand. "What I've got to tell you concerns you pretty deeply, and you're going to hear it whether Miss Minerva likes it or not."

Minerva steeled herself again.

"So hurry your ass up and tell me, if it's that important."

"Back in sixty-eight, I got a starting job in the Research Division, specifically the Prophesy office. Then, in seventy-one they merged the office with Archives, so 'bout thirty or so started transcribing prophesies because Archives didn't have space for all them little glass balls."

"You came here to tell me how hard you work?" Chey asked, now very annoyed.

"No, but if you got that impression, all the better for it," he answered, smirking. "There I was, writing down them cryptic warnings of the future. One caught my eye, so I kept a copy."

"Still not hearing anything that sounds important..."

"I think it's about you." Forsythe pulled from his pocket a slip of paper handed it over to Chey. He and Fleur read it together in silence.

"_The Misguided Fox who allies with Dragon's Flame and stands by the Court's Flower shall be haunted by the Lost Shadow who yearns for his long forgotten Strength. Without the Fox, the Shadow shall surely perish, and the Fox shall not survive without the Shadow's guidance. They shall together challenge the Darkness of the age, as the Shadow seeks his Former Glory. The Fox shall not be free of the Shadow until Former Glory is attained._"

"Forsythe, are you sure you weren't caught in some experiment gone horribly wrong when you worked in Research?" Chey asked.

"Now why would you ask that?"

"Because this has nothing to do with me. It's all ambiguous at best."

"On its surface, it doesn't seem to be about much of anything," Forsythe agreed. "But I thought you knew how to read between the lines?"

Chey read the prophesy again, and a third time, but still, "This could mean anything."

"I didn't think much of it at first," Forsythe admitted, "but the more I followed you the more the dots started coming together."

"How many dots?"

"A fair handful. To start, you're the 'Misguided Fox.' That's your animagus form, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Not much gets by you, does it, sonny?" Forsythe complimented. "Yeah, I knew that. So you're the Fox, and this young lady is the Flower."

"Moi?" Fleur asked, startled.

"My French ain't as fleshed out as other people's," Forsythe said, "but I'm pretty sure your name directly translates 'Flower of the Court.' Is that right, Miss Delacour?"

Fleur nodded silently, and Chey said, "Yeah, and Dragon's Flame is Vipey. I get it. What a coincidence."

"I thought you'd find it interesting," Forsythe said, apparently satisfied he'd made his point.

"No, I see it for what it is: a coincidence," Chey responded. "No names in there or nothing, so it's not about me."

Forsythe stared Chey down for a moment, then he half-smiled and said, "If you don't want to listen to me today, that's your call, son."

"Warren," Minerva started to speak, "you came all this way to-"

"Now, Minerva," Forsythe politely interrupted, picking up his coat from the chair and pulling it on, "if I came here to talk and no one's gonna listen, I'm not the type to impose myself. Ain't no use leading a horse to water if he ain't gonna drink."

"But..." Minerva tried again.

"As always, Miss Minerva, I wish you the best. Miss Delacour, good luck in the tournament. And stay out of trouble, young man." Before allowing anyone to answer, he said to the cliche fighter pilot, "Time to head out, Taylor."

Taylor then said to the two men by the door, "Stinger, Bulldog, primary sweep." Stinger and Bulldog then exited the room, checking the hallway. Both reported it clear, and Taylor said to Jackson, the gaunt-faced man with the in the back, "Snake, take point. We'll rendezvous with Cougar and Barracuda at the gate."

Jackson had been staring out the window, but snapped to attention, calmly saying, "Hoo rah," and began leading the way out of the office. Forsythe began to follow, alongside Taylor, when he stopped at the door.

"Ole' Lenny tells me you ain't been by to see your folks in a good while," he said, turning around and addressing Chey.

"If you're going to leave, then leave," Chey said quietly, seething. Something far down inside Chey told him that last remark was just to strike a nerve. All the same, it still angered him on an incredibly deep level.

"You oughta go and see them-"

"Just...go," Chey snapped.

Another snide smile appeared on Forsythe's face before he disappeared out the doorway. "Alright, Neil, Vincent. Try not to scare too many kids on the way out like you did coming in."

Last to leave was Taylor, who stood fast, faced Minerva and saluted.

"Your brother was a good man and an inspiration to us all, Miss McGonagall."

"Thank you, Hawk," Minerva answered him as if they knew each other. "Good day."

Taylor lowered his salute and followed the others out the door, snapping it shut behind him.

"Chey, you told me you were seeing them every summer."

"Don't start, Em. I'm not in the-"

"How long has it been?" she confronted him. "A year? Two?"

Chey scowled for a moment, then relented, "Since Jimmy died."

"'Ow could you not even viseet your parents' graves, Chey?" Fleur asked, a mix of concern and outrage in her eyes.

Minerva drew a sharp breath and said, "Chey, you won't even tell _her_?"

"Tell me what?" Fleur rounded on him. Chey refused to answer.

"Miss Delacour," Minerva explained, "the truth is that Chey's parents, William and Alana, aren't technically deceased."

"Que voulez-?"

"Had they been up against any other such dangerous creature they would have died. Actually, I rather like to think my brother and my sister-in-law were too good to lose to such lowly creatures. But, whatever may have been, they lost the fight and paid with their souls."

"I still do not-?"

"Young lady, there is a difference between losing your life and losing your soul," Minerva explained patiently. "To lose your life is as simple as that: dying. Chey's parents are not exactly deceased, but they are not entirely alive, either. If you were to speak to them, they would not respond, because they have no motivation to do so. They would not even recognize you were there."

Fleur looked horrified. She stuttered a moment before asking, "Zen, where are zey now?"

Minerva hesitated, as if wondering whether it was okay to tell her this.

"They're in a specialized ward at the Department of Sorcery," Chey interrupted when the got tired of the silence.

"Yes," Minerva said, seemingly relieved Chey had broken the news instead of her. "A group of researchers have spent the last fifteen years trying to reverse their condition. I'm sent monthly updates, but it's always the same."

"'Our sincerest condolences go out to you and your family,'" Chey recited, "'but we regret to inform you that, despite our best efforts, we have made no apparent progress on the condition of-'"

"That's enough, Chey."

"Every month they feed us the same-!"

"Chey," Fleur interrupted in a calm, disarming tone, "why won't you visit them?"

He had to take a long, shaky breath before he could answer. "Because it's hard enough...going to a grave and expecting no response, let alone seeing them alive...and wishing...just once...they'd look you in the eye."

* * *

Author's note.

Okay, I felt bad about leaving you with that cliffhanger last chapter. So I'm posting this one even though I haven't even started 45 yet.

I'll confess the prophesy element is shamelessly borrowed from the books' main story. But I racked my brain for a month trying to come up with an alternate. The prophesy just fit too well. But I won't put too much emphasis on it, so it's not like I'm completely lifting that concept.

I'm rebuilding the TermiteStudios website. When it's done, I'll have a new music video to debut with it.

-Termite.


	45. Chapter 45, Friendships Torn Asunder

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Forty-Five

Friendships Torn Asunder

* * *

Even though he knew the so-called prophesy was nothing but suggestion and Forsythe's claims were based only on wild speculation, Chey couldn't help but sneak another glance at the slip of paper it was written upon when he returned to the Common room.

It was moments after he'd left Minerva's office, intending to avoid further sympathies from Fleur. It was great that she cared and all, but her tender nature towards the tragedies in his early life were just more of the same he'd already received from everyone and his brother who pretended to give a damn.

He brushed aside the thought of Fleur's personality flaw (or perhaps it was a valuable endowment?), and chanced another look at the prophesy Forsythe had given him. Impossible to deny as it was that there were correlations, none of it seemed like it had anything to do with Chey at all. He moved closer to the window where the light was better. Maybe something else was written on it, perhaps in very faint ink. No such luck.

When he held it up against the glass to look for some sort of watermark, he saw Forsythe and his entourage of "security detail" progressing towards the gate, where two additional men in the same black tactical vests and trench coats as the other four. One, a very intimidating black man, leaned lazily against the gate, while the other, incredibly stiff and with no discernable emotion, stood at the ready. Both saluted Forsythe, then they continued to walk towards the town of Hogsmeade.

Chey would have watched further, but two things interrupted him. First, Raithe flew into his field of view and perched on the sill.

The second distraction was Harry asking "Could I ask a favor, Chey?"

Raithe would've been enough to startle Chey, but the additional two-fold interruption in the form of Harry and Hermoine appearing behind him caused his hand to slip on the glass, forcing him to strike his head on the windowpane.

"Sorry! I'm sorry!" Harry said quickly, stepping back.

"It's alright," Chey said, wincing from the sharp pain in his forehead. "Just do me a favor and don't walk on the carpet next time. Um, what do you want?"

"I...wondered if I could borrow your raven to send a letter?"

"Something wrong with your owl?"

"I have to, er...I mean, she's not very happy with me right now."

"Doesn't Red have a bird?" Chey asked, rubbing his forehead with one hand and stowing the written prophesy in his pocket with the other.

"I'm not asking that prat," Harry said defiantly.

"Time out. I thought you two were buddies."

"Well now he's being a big stupid-"

"Ron's jealous of Harry and they had a row last night," Hermoine interrupted. "And both of them are too thick-headed to apologize."

"Been there," Chey sympathized. "Just another part of being fourteen." A sharp tapping on the window behind him alerted Chey to the fact that Raithe was still perched outside the closed window. He opened it to allow Raithe to enter and asked, "How far is he going."

"Well, he's not leaving England, I don't think," Harry conjectured.

"Usually a good idea to know where someone is when you want to talk to them."

"Last he wrote, he said he was back in the country from...holiday, and..he wouldn't have left again just yet."

Curious, Chey thought, that Harry is having such a hard time explaining himself.

"Raithe isn't going far," Hermoine broke the brief silence. "Should be back in a week at most."

"Tell you what," Chey said, smiling at the challenge. "You go ahead and write to whoever you're talking to and tell them to answer back within two hours of getting it. Tell them to write down where they are, too."

"...Why?" Harry asked, seemingly worried for reasons unknown.

"Because my bird never takes longer than a week round trip unless he's crossing at least two time zones." Neither Harry nor Hermoine reacted to this show of confidence. With far less enthusiasm, Chey said, "Sure, you can borrow him."

* * *

That evening Chey tried his best to avoid Fleur at dinner, still not in the mood for her sympathies. Hindsight would soon prove, however, that avoiding Viktor should have been a priority as well.

"What did you say to her?" Viktor confronted Chey just as he entered the Great Hall.

"Say to who?"

"Delacour," Viktor clarified sternly. "She's furious with you."

"I didn't give her any reason to be mad."

"She's upset all the same. What did you say?"

"Gee, I don't know, I've said a lot of things to her in the past year," Chey said sarcastically. "Oh, wait! I know! Maybe you should tell me what she said is making her mad and maybe I can narrow it down."

"Well, I couldn't understand it all, because she kept flitting in and out of her mother tongue-"

"She always does that when she's mad."

"-But what I caught was something like she thinks you don't trust her."

"Is that all?"

"What have you been hiding from her?"

"Nothing, I swear!"

"You start courting another girl while you were here?"

"Of course not!" Chey defended himself. "You think I'm an idiot?"

"Obsessive former girlfriend from America? That could explain why you keep changing schools."

"A clever deduction as any, but no. And I would have filed a restraining order against someone that insane."

"Well she's not getting like this for no reason. Something had to set her off. And I believe it was you who told me that you have to be up front with women because they hate being lied to."

"Probably was me who said it, but that's little stuff like why you were late coming home the night before."

"Chey, I don't care what it was. Nothing you do could make me think any less of you."

"What's that supposed to-"

"But I think what you have with her is worth fighting to keep. So, whatever you did or said, apologize for it. Like you said, It's always-"

"Viktor, did I ask you to judge me?"

"Chey, I just-"

"Did I?" Chey shouted.

"I'm not trying to judge-"

"Then mind your own damn business!"

Viktor looked ready to respond, but stopped just before opening his mouth to speak. Finding nothing more to say, Chey retreated to the Gryffindor table.

* * *

"Never, ever keep secrets from a woman," Edward said so eloquently in the common room over scotch much later that night. "And should you ever keep a secret from a woman, it's a guarantee they will always find out. Every time."

"Okay, Ed," Chey said lazily. "I get it."

"Doesn't matter a bit who you are or what it is. Even if you're a Department of Mysteries bloke at the Ministry. If you have a mother, a sister, a daughter, a wife or a girlfriend, she will find out and force you into spending a suitable amount of time regretting your decision to hide facts. And don't call me 'Ed.'"

"Well women sure don't have to get all emotional about it."

"Sure, they don't have to," Edward continued. "But they will."

"But why every single time, dammit?"

"Because they like feeling they can be trusted. Kind of like how we like being in charge."

"Oh, like it's really that simple," Chey dismissed sarcastically.

"Well, no. but it stems from that."

"So what am I supposed to do while she's having this fit over nothing?"

"You could apologize for your insensitive attitude-"

"No," Chey interrupted.

"Or you could wait out the storm."

"I'll go with that one."

"How long are you willing to wait?"

"How long's it going to take?" Chey asked with some trepidation.

"Definitely a lot longer than it would take for her to find someone else to start snogging."

"...You got a shorter time period for me?"

"That's my best guess, Yank," Edward said. "And it's a generous one at that."

"All you're giving me is a guess?"

"No two women are alike. There's no concrete formula for predicting their habits."

"What if I just wait it out a little while," Chey suggested, "just to gauge her mood?"

"Great idea."

"Thank you."

Edward scoffed and said, "If you couldn't tell I was being facetious just now, then what makes you think you could judge a woman's mood?"

"Do you make a habit of playing with people's self esteem?"

"The longer you wait this out the harder it will bite you in the arse later."

"So I'll avoid her."

"How will you manage that?"

"This is a big castle," Chey said. "And it's not lke we're joined at the hip."

"Then how are you going to manage tomorrow?"

"Early breakfast, later dinner, hang out here in the morning and then my lesson with Aunt Em in the afternoon."

"You may run into a slight snag there."

"Just determined to screw over my view of the world, aren't you?"

"Your aunt wanted me to tell you that your lesson is off for tomorrow."

"She expect me to hide out here all day?"

"_Daily Prophet_ wants to take some pictures for a story on the Tournament tomorrow." Edward smiled. "Can't very well avoid your girlfriend if your duty as Mediator requires you to be there."

"You are one sadistic little bastard."

"No, I just like the occasional soap opera drama that punctuates the daily grind of Hogwarts life."

* * *

Author's note.

I know, I know. There have been some serious delays. But taking three production classes at once will do that. At one point, I was at a video shoot and editing shorts every week. I'm on break now, so I should get *some* time to work on the saga of Chey (along with rebuilding my website and helping to clean out the basement).

But despite delays and business, I felt I owed it to you guys to post a new chapter at this time.

Merry Christmas to all, Happy Holidays to the rest, and political correctness be damned.

-Termite.


	46. Chapter 46, The Muckraker

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Forty-Six

The Muckraker

* * *

For all of the next morning, Chey stuck to his established schedule, all while Edward kept calling it the "Avoid the Angry Girlfriend Plan," much to Chey's chagrin.

But the inevitable hitch in the scheme came in the mid-afternoon, as Chey made his way to the unused classroom designated as the _Daily Prophet_'s official Tournament press coverage headquarters for the day.

His opening the door revealed the room to be fairly small for a classroom. Three desks had been placed end to end in front of the chalkboard, draped in a velvet tablecloth, while the all the other desks had been shuffled to the side. Behind these tablecloth-covered desks were five chairs, in one of which was seated Ludo Bagman, speaking to a very bored looking witch in magenta robes, as a fairly paunchy man holding a slightly smoking camera stood next to her.

Standing in the corner, staring moodily out the window was Viktor, right where Chey expected him to be. In the middle of the room stood Cedric, who gazed around as if looking for someone to talk to.

"There you are, Chey!" Cedric called when he saw someone less discouraging than those already in his company. "How are you getting along with that Charms paper?"

"Finished it last Friday," Chey answered, caught a little off guard. Cedric looked surprised by his answer.

"What a way to show me up there, Chey, always getting everything done early."

"Relax, Ced. You'll have plenty of chances to show everyone up this year."

"Yeah, I suppose," Cedric agreed. "To tell you the truth, this whole champion thing is working rather well," he answered with a wide grin.

"It's only been two days."

"These girls just can't stay away from me."

"Ah yes, every man's dream," Chey understood.

From beside Chey, Viktor's voice asked him, "You have spoken to her?"

"No, Viktor," Chey said with a sigh. "I'm waiting until after I pick up my copy of 'The Men to Women Translating Dictionary.'"

"Who are you talking about?" Cedric asked, puzzled.

"The French girl," Viktor answered. "Beauxbatons' champion."

"Why would he need to talk to, er, what was her name? Delacour, right?"

"Yes," Viktor confirmed. "Their friendship is, how you say, not vell."

"Well, that's a shame," Cedric remarked with modest pity. After a short pause, his tone became inquisitive. "Wait, that 'real knockout' Bishop was talking about? That was her?"

"Yeah," Chey confirmed. "So?"

Cedric's eyes widened and he smiled. "Chey, I'm impressed."

"Well, keep your trap shut about it. I don't need more people thinking I rigged the tournament."

"Perhaps best to leave them alone, yes?" Viktor proposed, looking towards the door.

Curious, Chey looked to see what had Viktor's attention. He really should've expected it, but he was still surprised to see Fleur walk into the room.

A chill went down his spine, and he was shocked to find Viktor and Cedric had abandoned his side. He braced himself for any form of hostility Fleur might exhibit.

Her demeanor was, however, pleasant.

"How are you?" she asked with her trademark beautiful smile and mastery of the French language.

"Uh, fine," Chey answered, still bewildered how inconsistent women can be.

"And your issue with trusting me? How is that?" she asked quietly.

"Any chance you would let that go?" Chey said, following her whispering cue.

"I just want to know why."

"Seriously? The whole 'my parents aren't dead, just lost their souls' thing actually struck you as a casual conversation topic?"

"You could have mentioned it one of the times you spoke about my parents."

"I never talk about my parents!" Chey almost shouted. When every head in the room turned to hear their fascinating foreign language dialog currently taking place in the middle of the room.

"Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to talk about them if you would open up to at least somebody," Fleur said, returning the conversation back to a hushed tone.

"It's a little hard to open up to somebody when no one stays in your life for more than a year."

"Oh. Well, perhaps you should have thought of that before flooding the ground floor of your first school."

"Yeah, let me just rewind time," Chey said with frustrated sarcasm, "and alter a point in history that started me down a slippery slope that ultimately led to me falling in love with you." Then, to himself he added to himself, "Stupid idea."

She blinked, then looked at Chey sideways.

"How foolish do you think it would be?" she asked.

"Son of a bitch, that's worse than that quick-brew veritaserum I threw together in Colorado," Chey answered, not really caring why she asked.

But for some reason, Fleur gazed at Chey with her beautiful eyes, then smiled softly.

"That is the nicest thing you've said since you left Beauxbatons."

Shocking was one of the words Chey would have used to describe Fleur's analysis.

After reeling from her statement for a moment, and taking another short minute to translate those words into something his temporarily scrambled brain could understand, he remarked, "Wha... really?"

"Really," she said, sliding her arms over his shoulders. "It was sweet in your own... unique way."

"I... I had... I didn't know you were keeping track."

"Well, this is intriguing." The interruption of the third voice caused both of them to startle back half a step. From beside them, the witch who was once speaking to Bagman. She was revealed to have very stiff curls framing a square-jawed face set with gaudy jeweled fashion glasses which, given her magenta robes, crocodile skin handbag and two-inch crimson fingernails, clearly offered no vision correction whatsoever. A stark contrast from Fleur, Chey sensed she had a magical ability below even some of the students at Hogwarts, and she seemed to have only a moderate mastery of it.

"Que voulez-vous?" Fleur asked.

"Rita Skeeter," the truly hideous woman said in introduction, "Daily Prophet correspondent."

Aside, in her mother tongue, Fleur explained to Chey, "She's the reporter who wrote that article about you last Summer."

"'Expelled the Sixth Time: American Student Can't Conform?'" Chey asked the witch.

"Why yes," she confirmed. "I'm rather fond of that piece myself. It really helped me move on to the hard-hitting stories, like this Tournament and that dashing young Harry Potter." She finally spared a moment to look at Fleur. She considered her for a second and said with a scowl, "You're the little uncooperative thing who wouldn't answer my questions about that troublesome young wizard."

"Warlock," both Chey and Fleur corrected her. This brought he attention back to Chey.

"Then that would make you the infamous Chey McGonagall, wouldn't it?" she said with an odd gleam in her eyes.

He answered her with a stony a silence, such as he would normally give to an authority figure he disliked.

"Yes, I thought so," she said with a toothy smile. "Interesting that you would be Mediator this year." She paused a moment and connected the dots in her head, then snapped open her handbag. "And given your history with Miss Delousa-"

"Delacour," the two students again corrected her, though she seemed to have chosen not to hear them. Instead she pulled from her bag a sheet of parchment and an odd green quill.

"It's also very interesting she has been selected Champion of her little school."

Chey never got to ask what she was attempting imply, because Bagman had bounded toward the door, celebrating, "Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in you come..."

This did not go unnoticed by Rita Skeeter, who scooted away from Chey and Fleur faster than it took him to look in Bagman's direction and see Harry had come in the door.

"You were right," Chey said as he saw Skeeter shuffle over to Harry and Bagman. "That is the most hideous bag I've ever seen."

"Crocodile skin makes it worse," Fleur added.

"I was talking about the trashy bitch carrying it."

"As was I."

Chey smiled at the shared jab at Skeeter's sense of style, and wondered how he could have ever contemplated being frustrated with Fleur.

"She was very quick to make the connection between us," Fleur noted. "You don't suppose..."

"She'll call us out on it?" Chey finished for her.

"Yes. What if she tries to tell everyone the only reason I'm here is because of you?"

"You saw how fast she slithered away, didn't you?" Chey said. "Specks over there is way more newsworthy than you or me put together."

"But suppose-" Fleur said, starting to sound worried now.

"Relax," Chey comforted her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "I got the feeling she's just going to tuck that in a corner and use it for a slow news day. Also possible she'll wait until you're doing really well or really bad in the tasks. Either way, I got enough time to scare her away from printing anything like that."

"What if you don't? What if she prints it tonight?"

"Then we'll weather the storm," Chey said. "We'll give interviews to real reporters and clear everything up." She didn't seem entirely convinced. "We'll be fine. Hey, if we got through that night at the World Cup then we'll get though this just as easily." She didn't seem entirely convinced, so he added, "Maybe even with less screaming and fewer people casting symbols of evil maniacs into the sky."

Finally, her mood lightened enough for her to smile and kiss his cheek.

"Might I trouble you a moment, Mister McGonagall?" came the voice of Albus Dumbledore, who appeared rather suddenly for someone of his age.

"You might," Chey answered, annoyed at the second interruption.

"I wondered if you might know if Mister Potter has yet arrived," inquired the serene headmaster.

"Sure, he's right over... there..." But Harry was not where Chey had last seen him. In fact, Harry was no longer in the room. Rita Skeeter was missing as well, for that matter. "...That ratty little career driven bitch."

He started his march out the door, picking up the trail of Skeeter's below average, poorly controlled magical capacity and followed it into the hallway, with Dumbledore on his heels.

The trail didn't lead far. In fact, it stopped at a rather nondescript door which, once opened, revealed Rita Skeeter and a very surprised Harry to be stowed away inside a broom closet, seated facing one another. Out of the corner of his eye, Chey saw Skeeter hastily packing a sheet of parchment and an acid-green quill into her crocodile-skin bag.

"Well, if it isn't the muckraker," Chey said. Clearly, she understood the term's definition and smiled. "Not a compliment coming from me."

"Dumbledore!" she said with every indication of delight. She stood up from her perch on the upturned bucket and offered her hand. "How are you? I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards's conference?"

"Enchantingly nasty," Dumbledore said with a sort of twinkle in his eye. "I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat."

"Damn, woman," Chey said. "You're just itching to piss people off everywhere, aren't you?"

"While I look forward to the epic debate between the two of you," Dumbledore said, "I'm afraid we will have to save it for another time. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard."

Taking the cue, Chey helped Harry off the cardboard box and out of the closet, then guided him back to the room before Skeeter could dig her two-inch crimson claws back into the boy.

"Specks, the worst thing you can offer a reporter," Chey warned him, "is anything that even remotely sounds like the words 'exclusive interview.'"

"Thanks Chey," Harry said, clearly and understandably relieved to be away from her.

Back in the room, the other champions were seated in chairs near the door, while behind the table were the Tournament judges, except for Dumbledore. Standing in a corner was the photographer holding the smoking camera, and he was staring very intently at Fleur, who looked slightly disturbed by his gaze.

But opposite the judges' table, standing quietly by the window, was a man Chey had not seen in over six years, who would likely want very much to know what had happened to his wand.


	47. Chapter 47, The Wandmaker

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Forty-Seven

The Wandmaker

* * *

It was six years ago, in the weeks just before Chey would begin his first term at Washington Magical Academy, when Chey and his aunt Minerva set foot into the dusty shop of Ollivander's. Inside the shop with the sign reading _Olivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC_ and dusty window display consisting of a single wand on a faded purple cushion were rows upon rows of neatly stacked slender boxes and a spindly-legged chair.

"Come along, Chey," Minerva said, taking off her pointed hat to reveal her jet-black hair drawn into a tight bun, and leading the young warlock by the hand. "And don't touch anything."

"Aunt Em, why can't I use Dad's wand?" Chey asked his aunt as they entered. Quite frankly, he was not too keen to be there. They had been on quite a journey already, searching in wand shops everywhere for something that would be compatible, and his already frail patience typical of youth had grown incredibly thin.

Minerva did not answer, for she had already told Chey why he could not simply pick up William McGonagall's wand and cast to his heart's content.

"My, my, it has been quite some time, hasn't it Minerva?" said a voice from around the corner. It's owner walked slowly into view, and he was shown to be an old wizard with large, pale eyes and a somewhat untidy mop of hair. "I've not seen you since you brought your young brother here for his wand. Twelve and a half inches of Georgia oak with a unicorn hair. Very stable, good balance, excellent for dueling." He paused a moment, and said, "I was very sorry to hear of his fate."

"Thank you, Mister Ollivander," Minerva said.

Mister Ollivander then shifted his gaze to the little boy at Minerva's side. "Then this would be his son."

"Yes, this is my nephew, Chey."

"Ready to begin your schooling at Hogwarts, are you?" Mister Ollivander asked the boy, who scoffed at the notion.

"Not quite," Minerva explained. "Chey has instead decided to attend his father's school."

"Washington Magical Academy, wasn't it? Excellent school, as I hear."

"Of course. I wouldn't have agreed otherwise."

"He'll be needing a wand then?" Mister Ollivander asked as he pulled a measuring tape from the shelf, though it didn't really sound like a question.

"Naturally," Minerva said, standing back as Mister Ollivander began to take down Chey's various measurements.

"His father's wand, I assume, was not ideal?" Mister Ollivander said.

"Hardly. Shot right out of his hand."

"And his mother's wand?"

"I don't want to use a girl's wand!" Chey finally spoke. Mister Ollivander only smiled as he measured Chey's arm.

"Even less fortune with Alana's," Minerva said.

"And what sort of wand was that?" the old man asked. In response, Minerva pulled from her robes a wand and handed to the wandmaker. This gave Mister Ollivander moment to pause from taking Chey's measurements.

He took the wand, absentmindedly dropping his measuring tape into Chey's hand, and held it calmly, running his fingers along its grain.

"Ten inches, maple, and a phoenix feather... Not the best of wands, but certainly the best I've seen from America." He returned Alana's wand to Minerva, and resumed taking Chey's measurements.

"That's another reason we're here," Minerva said. "His father's friend, James, has already brought Chey to two wand shops in America."

"That's not uncommon for an American shop to not match a wand. After all, American wandmakers have only been in the craft for a little over two hundred years. Did you try anywhere else?"

"Of course. We wondered if a change from the American style would do the trick, so naturally, we paid a visit to Gregorovitch."

"Mm-hm." There was a hint of contempt, but masked by politeness.

"And we tried a shop in Paris on our way here."

"The fact the French are known for their champagne is the reason they're not known for their wands," Mister Ollivander said, smiling at his own jest. "Well, I completely understand why you went to Paris and Gregorovitch before me. Given the American wands didn't match, and they are mere imitations of my work," there was an odd stress in his voice on the word imitations. "Only natural you might try different styles."

"Now we're not sure it's a matter of styles," Minerva said. "Not a single shop had a wand which was compatible."

"And you're quite sure he has the gift?"

"Oh, yes," Minerva said. In her trademark disapproving tone, she remarked, "He's already frightened all the neighborhood children at least once."

"Uncle Jimmy thought it was funny," Chey said, smiling.

"Well, let's see what we can find," Mister Ollivander said, just taking his last measurement, the distance between Chey's eyes. He began scouring the many stacks of boxes on the walls of the shop, pulling down seemingly random ones from every other stack. "Let's try this one," he said, opening one of the boxes, "twelve inches, elm and phoenix feather."

He handed the wand to Chey, who gave it a wave and sent the shop window flying into the street in a million pieces.

"No, no," Mister Ollivander said, gingerly taking the wand and replacing it into its box, while with a wave of her own wand, Minerva repaired the shop window. He took another wand from its box and handed it to Chey. "Nine inches, holly and dragon heartstring."

Chey took it in his hand, and the instant it touched his fingers the shop counter erupted in a fiery blaze. Not half a second after he had given it to Chey, Mister Ollivander took the wand back.

And so was the same story for the next dozen or so wands they tried, only different results of equally destructive nature.

"Just like the other places," Chey lamented.

"Chin up, Chey," Minerva consoled him. "It's only been a few wands. And look how many others are in here."

"How strange," Ollivander muttered.

"Something wrong?"

"Such violent reactions mean incredible incompatibility," Ollivander said. "And every one of the wands I've tried are all very different from each other. I worry any other wand would have the same result."

The three of them stood in silence. Chey wanted to tell him to just keep trying, but part of him knew how tired he was of the search. That part of him, wand or no wand, just wanted to go home.

There was a soft thump from the back of the shop, and all three heads turned. A second thump followed, and from a shelf behind the counter dropped an old wooden box with a tarnished latch, trailed by a cloud of dust.

Mister Ollivander walked slowly towards the fallen box, a nervous step in his stride. He picked it up gently, and contemplated it a moment.

"Perhaps..." he whispered. He pried loose the latch and opened the lid, then nodded to himself. "Yes, let's try this one," he said, presenting the box to Chey. "Fifteen inches, ash, and a dragon heartstring."

Inside the box was a wand, a fair bit longer than the rest, covered in a thin layer of dust, and resting on a small display mount nailed to the inside of its container. Every other wand Chey had ever seen had a smooth veneer and specular shine. By incredible contrast, this one was faded grey, splintering, and forming cracks in the places where the grain was deteriorating.

But its unusual nature peaked at its design; a carved dragon entwined around the handle, its features dulled by age.

"At least this one looks kind of cool," Chey said, picking it up from the box. It felt rough and dry on his fingers, so unlike the smooth polish of the others.

"Extraordinary," Mister Ollivander said in a whisper, though he did not explain why. "Go on then, boy. Give a bit of a wave."

Before Chey could do as he was asked, and he immediately felt a warm, comforting sensation throughout his arm. This warmth spread to the rest of his body, and with it came the knowledge that no bitter cold could snuff it out. It felt like reuniting with a long lost friend. Every oil lamp, torch, and even the fireplace suddenly lit in a healthy blaze, flooding the shop in flickering orange firelight.

After a moment, he adjusted to the warmth, and started a wave. The wand in his hand began to tremble, and immediately he was blinded by a hot white light. An incredible wind began to swirl around him, lashing his hair against his face and deafening his ears. Now the wand shook violently, though it refused to leave his hand.

Just as it felt as though the wand might break every bone in his hand, everything stopped. Despite the gale-force wind that swirled around Chey, nothing seemed out of place in the wand shop. Minerva had her hand clutched to the back of a chair, while Mister Ollivander stared, fascinated at something in Chey's hand.

Chey followed Mister Ollivander's gaze, and saw that the dry, cracked wand that was once in his hand, had turned as smooth and colorful as if it were freshly carved and varnished, a medium brown with a much lighter tone on the carved dragon with black horns and eyes.

"Extraordinary," Mister Ollivander whispered again.

"Mister Ollivander," Minerva gasped. "What could you be thinking, putting a wand like that in the hands of a child?"

"Now now, Minerva," Mister Ollivander calmed her. "The boy is quite safe, as you can clearly see."

"What was that?" Chey asked, admiring the sculpted dragon entwined around the handle.

"Well, young lad, it would seem-" Mister Ollivander started, but then pulled up a chair for Chey and himself. "Sit, please."

Chey did so, but still stared at the wand in his hand.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold," Mister Ollivander said, taking his seat. Over near one of the shelves, Minerva slid into the chair she had been clutching to just moments before. "By that same token, I've always remembered this wand. It is a wand that has never been sold in the history of my family's store.

"Exactly two thousand, three hundred and seventy years ago, when this store first opened its doors, this wand was donated to my family in celebration of our first days of business. In those days, it was not uncommon to offer wands for new wand shops to sell, to help start the business, shall we say.

"And so, on the day Ollivander's shop opened its doors, there were several dozen wands in clasped wooden boxes much like the one in which the wand in your hand once rested. In the following years and centuries, every one of those wands had found owners. All, save for this one."

"What happened?" Chey asked, no longer interested in the wand's design, and now focused intently on Mister Ollivander's story.

"In all those years, anyone who ever held the wand found themselves horribly burned, and some even fell terribly ill."

"Why?" Chey asked, so very confused how a wand could be so troublesome.

"The wand chooses the wizard, Mister McGonagall," Mister Ollivander said through his misty eyes. "And it would seem that this wand has chosen you above all others."

"Who gave it to you?"

"Names get lost to time, young Mister McGonagall. Perhaps some day they will be remembered, but for now I must ask this one thing of you."

Chey listened even more closely to the wandmaker's words.

"This wand," he said, "which has denied all save for the one refused by all others, is now forever yours. Care for it well, and it shall prove a most powerful and loyal friend through all your hardships. So long as you give it a welcoming home, it will never betray you."


	48. Chapter 48, A Wand's Weight and Measure

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Forty-Eight

A Wand's Weight and Measure

* * *

"May I introduce Mister Ollivander?" Dumbledore said, taking his place at the judges' table and indicating the aged wizard with pale eyes. "He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament."

"Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" Mister Ollivander said, stepping forward into the center of the room.

Fleur must have seen Chey staring at Ollivander, for she glanced at him as if for his approval. Chey saw her fleeting glance and nodded. She approached him tentatively and handed over her wand to the Wandmaker.

As Ollivander twirled it around his fingers, the wand emitted a series of pink and gold sparks. He then held it close to his eyes, and examining it quietly said, "Nine and a half inches... inflexible... rosewood... and containing... dear me..."

"An 'air from ze 'ead of a veela," Fleur said, finishing his thought. "One of my grandmuzzer's." Chey wondered if it was wise to disclose that information to a room full of strangers, of whom one was an overzealous reporter writing very quick notes on her parchment.

"Yes," Ollivander said, running his fingers over the wand, "yes, I've never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands... however, to each his own, and if this suits you..." Ollivander gave the wand a wave, casting an Orchideous charm. He gathered the bouquet of flowers he'd conjured and handed them to Fleur with her wand. "Very well, very well, it's in fine working order. Mister Diggory, you next."

Fleur walked back to her seat, making a point of exchanging eye contact with Chey. He understood and walked closer to where she sat.

"Who is he?" she whispered.

"The only wandmaker in England," Chey whispered back as Ollivander examined Cedric's wand.

"If that is all, why are you afraid of him?"

"He's the guy that sold me wand."

"Why does that matter?"

"He'd be the first to know if anything was wrong with it, wouldn't he?"

A small shower of sparks caught their attention. Harry had gathered a handful of his robes and used them to give his wand an impromptu polishing. Given he had interrupted their conversation, Chey and Fleur couldn't help throwing him an austere look.

"Sorry," Harry whispered, stowing his wand back in his robes.

"There's nothing wrong with your wand," Fleur said to Chey, resuming their hushed conversation while Ollivander conjured smoke rings with Cedric's wand and asking Viktor to approach so his wand may be examined.

"Sure nothing's wrong if you don't count the fact it got _shattered!_."

"I...I'm sorry," Fleur said. "It's just so easy to forget, you hide it so well."

"Shouldn't have to."

"Maybe he won't see. What if you manage to fool him?"

"Fleur, do you remember that old guy with the messed up face from the other night?"

"The one who thought someone wanted to harm that boy?" Chey nodded. "Why?"

"I met him at the World Cup and he saw the illusion in a heartbeat. If I can't get by him I don't have a shot in hell of tripping up a guy who makes wands for a living."

"You don't even know if he'll look at your wand."

"Fleur, say you have a wand that's been in your shop since it opened twenty-four hundred years ago, and you sold it to a little eleven-year-old smart ass. Wouldn't you want to see what's happened to it since you sold it six years ago?"

"Well... then you'll just have to leave before he can ask to see it," Fleur said as Ollivander finished his examination of Viktor's wand, and now asked Harry to present his wand.

"I guess. Here's hoping I can get out in time and find a good hiding spot."

Mister Ollivander spent a great deal of time examining Harry's wand. At first glance, it seemed he was in some sort of trance, but he may well have been lost in reminiscence. Finally, he produced a fountain of wine and returned it to Harry, pronouncing it to be in perfect condition.

"Thank you all," Dumbledore said, standing from his seat at the judges' table. "You may go back to your lessons now-"

"Just a moment, Albus," Bagman said enthusiastically. "We've forgotten about our Mediator. It's necessary Mister McGonagall's wand is as functional as our contestants."

"Yes, it seems I have," Dumbledore said in apology. "Mister Ollivander, if you will oblige?"

Begrudgingly, Chey pulled from his belt the illusionary wand and made to hand it over, ready for Ollivander to see it for the immaterial semblance for what it was. There was no avoiding it now. Chey's closest secret, shared only with his aunt and two best friends, was about to become public in front of three of his headmasters, two top-ranking officials of the Ministry of Magic, two of his current classmates, and a very career-oriented gossip reporter.

Chey tried his best to ignore the many pairs of eyes watching him. Fleur was sympathetic, Viktor concerned, Harry and Cedric were curious, Maxime and Karkaroff scrutinized him, and Rita Skeeter seemed interested in why Dumbledore would omit Chey the Mediator. Frankly, Chey vaguely wondered himself why Dumbledore seemed to have forgotten him.

Worst of all, Chey's wand wasn't bought with money. Rather, it was bought with the promise that Chey would give it a good home. Once Ollivander discovered Chey had allowed it to be shattered, what would he say? Would he take the wand back since Chey broke his promise?

"There'll be no need," Mister Ollivander said. "I'm quite sure Mister McGonagall's wand is in fine condition."

"But it's part of the-" Bagman said, failing to disguise his disappointment.

"A formality, Ludo," Dumbledore interjected. "Weighing the Mediator's wand is merely a formality, and it always has been. If Mister Ollivander trusts Chey's wand is well, it's more than enough to convince me."

"Well then," Bagman resigned, "I suppose if it's enough to convince you, Albus, it ought to be enough for any of us."

Chey looked around the room and saw several people nod in agreement. Seeing no objections raised, he put his false wand away.

"If we're all in agreement, then," Dumbledore said, addressing the champions, "I suppose your classes are all but finished by now, so you can all go straight to dinner."

Everyone assembled moved toward the door, Chey in the hurried lead. His glorious escape from scrutiny was short-lived, however, for the stout photographer with the smoking camera jumped in front of the crowd.

"Photos, Dumbledore!"

The next half hour consisted entirely of picture taking. A fervent battle was raged over the group photo between Rita Skeeter, who made several attempts to place Harry at the forefront, and the photographer, who conveyed a desire to feature Fleur more prominently in the shot. Neither Harry nor Fleur showed any expression of flattery. None of their opinions mattered, however, for Madame Maxime always overshadowed everyone, regardless of their efforts.

In the end, however, it was agreed to seat Maxime in the center, and stand everyone else around her. That would have been the end of it, had Rita Skeeter not insisted on individual photos of all the champions.

Finally, after a group photo of Chey with all the champions, Dumbledore dismissed them. Before anyone could leave, however, Ollivander spoke up for the first time since the wand weighing.

"Professor Dumbledore, if I might have a word with Mister McGonagall?"

Dumbledore agreed, and motioned for everyone to vacate the room. Once they obliged, only Fleur remained in the room with Chey and Ollivander.

"Mademoiselle, I'm afraid this is a private matter," Ollivander explained.

"It's fine," Chey said. "Anything you say to me can be said in front of her." Fleur smiled at Chey's words, but the wandmaker sighed.

"My boy, let me be clear. This concerns certain details about the wand I sold you six years ago."

"She already knows as much as I do."

Ollivander considered the upset for a moment, and finally agreed.

"Well, if you're quite sure..."

"Just tell me what you want," Chey said, his frustration building.

"Have you ever met another wandmaker since we last met?" Ollivander said calmly with a hint of a smile.

"Why would I?"

"I think we both know why." He continued to beam his increasingly annoying smile. "I knew it was clear you hadn't, as any wandmaker in the world would recognize your wand."

"You all keep a list of really old wands?" Chey asked sarcastically. "Are wandmakers a collectors' guild now?"

"We all know your particular wand by sight and its reputation."

"Any particular reason you would?" Chey said, starting to feel wary.

"Do you remember the history of this wand as I told you?"

"Sure. You said it sat in your shop since it opened. You never sold it and you can't remember where it came from."

"True, that is what I said that day," Ollivander said. "Upon reflection, however, I feel you deserve a more honest answer."

"So you lied to me, right?" Chey said, unsurprised.

"I omitted details that were of no concern to an eleven year old child."

"And ten-to-one, it's still not my problem."

"Would you like the truth?"

"I'd appreciate not being lied to for once, yes."

"Over time," Ollivander began, "some stories get distorted as different people tell them over the years. Your wand's story in particular, however, still retains several of its facts.

"Long before your wand ever entered my shop, all of Europe found itself under tyrannical rule for a brief time. A very talented witch who grew from humble beginnings used her talents to gain dominion over her home region. Naturally, it ought to have stopped there, but the power grew on her, and as her people began to fear her rather than respect her, her power grew. It wasn't long before she held rule over nearly all of Europe, and she had crowned herself as Empress.

"When some of her subjects expressed the idea she was truly powerless over them, she gathered the greatest wandmakers of the day and commissioned a wand with strength beyond all others. After a year of six wandmakers' work, it was finished. To demonstrate its power, she destroyed her own palace, and rebuilt it from the rubble, each act in a single spell.

"Needless to say, this terrified all, and her power was never questioned again."

"You said she ruled for a short time," Chey said. "What stopped her?"

"Not all people are cowards, Mister McGonagall," Ollivander answered. "A common man, whose family was slaughtered by her hand, killed his empress while she slept. From that day on, your wand refused to be used by any witch or wizard..."

"Until I found it, right?"

"Not a wandmaker alive who does not know that story. It's quite obvious you have not met with any since you received your wand, for any of them surely would have told you its tale."

"We still aren't at the part where I give a damn."

Ollivander paused a moment, still smiling, and gazed at Chey's right arm. "Mister McGonagall, are you fully aware of what has happened to your wand?"

"Why, what's wrong?" Chey asked, instinctively reaching for his wrist with his other hand.

"Nothing's wrong, my boy. Quite the contrary, your wand is in far better condition than it has ever been in its lifetime."

"'Ow can zat be?" Fleur wondered aloud. "Eet wuz shattered, wuz eet not?"

"Correct, Mademoiselle," Ollivander answered. "But remember that a wand has properties beyond that of its physical form."

"Stop," Chey interrupted. "How do you know what happened?"

"Your aunt Minerva felt it necessary to contact me when she learned of the situation."

"Typical." Yet again, Minerva had gone behind his back. First, she secretly arranged for him to take the O.W.L. tests, which he was vehemently opposed to, and now Chey learned she completely disregarded his request to keep the condition of his wand a secret.

"You should thank her for her concern," Ollivander said. "When you first disclosed what had happened to you, she immediately relayed her worries to me."

"She wuz only worried for you, Chey," Fleur said before Chey could further express his frustration with Minerva's penchant for over-concern.

"Mister McGonagall, what exactly is it you think happened to your wand?"

"I...it just..." Chey couldn't answer. To be honest, he'd never put a lot of thought into why his wand merged with his flesh, just enjoyed the fringe benefits. The same as why some people were pleasant and others were inherently frustrating, Chey accepted the facts as they were and never bothered with any underlying causes.

"Are you aware that you have unwittingly accomplished just what countless wizards have strained to grasp for centuries?" When Chey shook his head, Ollivander's expression then became very excited, like a child with a secret he was dying to tell. "Until you proved us all correct, complete wizard and wand integration has been only a theory!"

"You saying this never happened before?"

"Not that anyone has recorded, no."

"But what's the big deal?"

"Can't you imagine the potential, my boy? Relatively speaking, we are only on the verge of unlocking the full capacities of our wands. But by bringing the wand closer to the wizard's mind, there is so much more we could accomplish."

"I haven't noticed that much difference," Chey said.

"That's because you've not yet unlocked your wand's full potential. Forgive me, for you are without mistake incredibly talented, but much of what you can do today would be incredibly difficult without your embedded wand to help you."

"You think I can't do this on my own?"

"Certainly not, my boy. Anything you can do today, you could surely do without your wand if you had enough focus and practice."

"So you came here to tell me a story about my wand and that I'm nothing without it," Chey said.

"No. I'm here for the Wand Weighing. I asked you to stay so I might make a formal request."

"Then come out and say it."

"Very well then. Would you grant me the opportunity to study your unique condition?"

"My 'unique condition?'"

"Mind you, many would not bother to ask before-"

"You think I'm a science project?"

"I understand your skepticism."

"And you still phrased to question that way?"

"I had hoped you might understand that if you permitted me a few days to study your condition, I may be able to help you to better realize the magical potential that comes with such a close connection between a wizard and his wand."

For the first time since the conversation began, Chey was intrigued. No doubt he had a lot of potential thanks to his wand, but the idea that there might be more he could do seemed almost too good to pass up. Conversely, however, he'd grown rather attached to the way he could cast spells in this unique and idealized manner, and he didn't quite like the idea of more people having this capacity. This might mean more illusionists, and animagi, and then what would be left that made Chey unique?

But still, having more control of his powers...

Chey noticed Fleur was watching him, and he wondered if he should ask for her input. True, he was on some rather thin ice with her lately, and valuing her input might put him on better terms. To be honest, however, in what way could she offer useful advice? She couldn't exactly relate to his situation, after all.

"I don't expect you to decide today," Ollivander said. "Just please send me word when you have."

Chey nodded in response, still mulling it over in his head. Without another word, Ollivander exited the room, leaving Chey and Fleur alone in silence.

"What are you thinking?" Fleur asked.

"I don't know," he answered. "What do you think?"

"I think you have been given an opportunity to learn about yourself."

"What do you mean?"

She sighed. "I have suspected for some time that you pretend to keep so many secrets simply because you do not have the answers. I think this is your chance to get at least some of those answers."

"So you think I should take him up on that offer?"

"I think it is your decision," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "Until we are married, that is, and then it is my decision."

Chey couldn't help but chuckle, glad that at least one of them had broken the tension.

* * *

Author's Note.

Delays delays delays. Good news, though. I've revamped my website (link on my profile). You may need to update your browser's Flash player to see it, but it's worth it since I put some of my school projects on, including my very favorite, the Doritos commercial. Also on the new site I've included a link to my new blog, Hold Your Shoe. Just whole lot more of my work to love now.

Termite.


	49. Chapter 49, Flip of a Coin

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Forty-Nine

Flip of a Coin

* * *

"C'mon, Fleur, I want you to be straight with me," Chey said over dinner that evening. "Do you think I should work with that withered old wandmaker or not?"

She sighed, and relented. "Honestly, I think this is an opportunity for you to learn more about yourself. And whether you want to go directly reflects whether you're willing to learn."

"That was more profound than usual."

"You think I can't be profound?"

"I'm not saying you're never profound," Chey backpedaled, "just that it seemed a little out of character for you."

Fleur tilted her head in a playfully scornful manner.

"No offense, but you're usually so haughty to everyone."

"And that bothers you?"

"Actually, it would bother me more if you were overly friendly to everyone. Make me wonder if I really matter."

She smiled. "I had no idea you were so easily threatened."

"Now you're reading too much into it." A moment passed with not a word between them, but Chey got this idea that there was something she wanted to say while she nibbled at her roast beef. "What?"

"Just thinking," she said, "about the man you said was reading too much into that prophesy."

"Forsythe?"

"Yes. He was someone important in your government, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, he's the new Secretary, so he runs the whole Department of Sorcery now."

"Then those men with him were aurors?"

"More or less our version of aurors. Those guys were probably Specters."

"As in ghosts?"

"That's their official title. FBI has special agents, CIA has spooks, and we have Specters. And they work a little differently back home. Now and then you'll find a solo agent if he's undercover or something like that, but Specters usually work in groups. My Uncle Jimmy said they're in squads of four to seven."

"Was he a Specter?"

"Not that he ever told me. All he ever said was some people he knew from when he was our age kept in touch after they joined the service. Not that I ever met any of these people..."

"Certainly sounds like he may have been one."

"Possibly. Always talked about them with respect. One time, about a month before he died, he told me that there's this secret squad called Sigma that's supposed to be some kind of super-elite. Told me they stopped all kinds of wars before they got started. I was eleven when he told me so I believed every second, but now it seems like he was just blowing smoke."

"You never know," she said, playfully. "The idea that men can change the world without anyone knowing has a sort of romantic quality to it."

"Happens every day," Chey said, and it piqued her interest to hear that this fantasy had merit. "Unfortunately it usually involves some fat bureaucrat behind a desk."

She gave a haughty scoff at the idea. As she shook her head as if to remove the image from her mind, the jet-black shape of Raithe soared overhead from somewhere down the Gryffindor table. Remembering he had lent Raithe to Harry to deliver a letter, Chey looked down the table and saw Harry reading the reply that Raithe had brought.

"Hey Specks!" he called. "Told you Raithe was fast!"

* * *

Magical schoolchildren are strange little creatures. In the moments they spend getting the education that might determine the rest of their lives, they'd much rather talk about how someone else's life might end. Indeed, the primary topic of nearly everyone's conversation was the First Task of the Tournament. Word had gotten around that the task would test the Champions' daring, so it wasn't a stretch to assume it would be dangerous.

Chey was finding it difficult to keep quiet about the dragons that were planned for the task. While the champions never spoke about the task with him (perhaps to keep their minds off it), countless classmates of theirs' hounded Chey for some slip that might give their champion an edge in the contest. On occasion he had to ask Minerva if he could hide in her office. She obliged his request, but had to ask him to leave after the twelfth person asked to see him in a single hour.

The times he wasn't badgered by their aggravated school spirit were usually during their class times, and since he had only four classes this was to his advantage. He would primarily spend that time fixing the Charger. He and Edward had gotten it into mostly working condition, just couldn't get it started.

"I suppose it would have to be the carburetor," Edward said after a repair session just one week before the First Task. "There's too much in there that could have been badly damaged by Peeves, and we'd never see it with our own eyes."

"So what do you think?" Chey asked. "Can we get around it?"

"The smart move would be to get a replacement. I could probably fix it if we were at my dad's shop, but not here."

"So we just need a new one then?"

"Everything else looks fine, so one new carb and it should run. The trouble would be finding an exact replacement."

"Relax. Lenny will find one."

"Who's-?"

"My car guy back home, remember?" Chey said. "I told you about him, didn't I? Takes care of my dad's cars, makes his own lager..."

"Oh, right."

On the night following this exchange, Chey sent word to Lenny about ordering the new parts. Knowing it would be unfair to ask Raithe to make the trans-oceanic journey, he recalled that, while growing up, he'd once asked Jimmy how letters would make it from his house all the way to his aunt Minerva while she was teaching in England. Jimmy had explained that, while American magic users used the standard (yet surprisingly efficient) non-magical postal system to communicate, magic users in Europe used a different system consisting mainly of owls. To bridge the two systems, the Department of Sorcery set up special offices in American embassies around the world to receive letters from one system, and send them on their way using the other. Armed with this knowledge, Chey sent Raithe off with his request to the embassy in London, along with instructions to forward it to Lenny in the States. Of course, Chey did his best to make sure that Raithe understood not to wait for a reply, since it could take weeks for Lenny to get back. The man wasn't known for keeping up with paperwork.

Charlie had come through with good news. After Chey had informed him that there were now four champions, up from three, he worried that there wouldn't be nearly enough for a fair task. Miraculously, Charlie pulled through. According to Charlie, the Romanian reservation had two nesting mother dragons of proper weight class, and both the Wales and Nu Jiang reservations were willing to spare one each of their primary breeds, bringing it up to a perfect four dragons for the anticipated day. Charlie had even been appointed by the reservation manager to supervise the move.

All things considered, the champions were taking things well. If Chey had to gauge them on a scale, he would have to say Cedric was doing best. Girls found him particularly attractive, and he almost never went anywhere without an entourage to keep his spirits high. In addition, someone in Slytherin House had devised a pin-on button which said "Support Cedric Diggory; the _Real_ Hogwarts Champion," but when pressed they flashed green and became emblazoned with the words "Potter Stinks." Chey finally got his hands on one when a first year dropped his after Chey scared the living daylights out of him, and while he certainly found the badges to be in horrible taste, he certainly couldn't deny it was a clever bit of magic.

Unfortunately, the badges had a natural side effect. Whatever positive effect they had on Cedric meant an equally negative effect on Harry. Not only did they frustrate him, but he'd grown estranged from Ron. Topping it all off, Rita Skeeter seemed to have taken Harry's approval for an interview a little too far. Whatever effort she had put into the article about Chey last Summer to humiliate him, she had inadvertently placed an equal amount of embarrassment upon Harry with her article about the Tournament. And it wasn't so much an article on the Tournament as it was an article on Harry, embellishing several statements that Chey knew Harry would never say, and certainly seemed to come from a more literary hand than anyone's voice. Regardless, Harry still had to endure taunting quotes of the humiliating article from his detractors.

Viktor was handling his nerves in a unique way. Just as he would before a decisive Quidditch match, he would brood by his lonesome. This time, however, he was spending a great deal of time in the library, seemingly trying to soak up as much knowledge as possible to be ready for just about anything. Chey wondered how it was possible for him to concentrate with all the twittering away by the giggling schoolgirls behind the stacks. But with all his brooding, Viktor never gave the impression that he didn't feel ready.

Fleur, on the other hand, was becoming more nervous as the day grew closer. She certainly put on a brave face in the halls, but as soon as she and Chey were alone she would occasionally break down. Once, Chey suggested she resign, but apparently the idea of looking like a fool frightened her more than the unseen challenge ahead.

The Saturday before the First Task marked the first Hogsmeade visit for students third year and above. Chey was actually quite looking forward to getting away from the incessant nagging from students dying to know about the First Task, as well as escaping their prying eyes so he may spend more time with Fleur without anyone assuming he might operate with a bias in the Tournament. Fortunately, Edward had already wisely warned them about all the places to avoid. His list consisted primarily of the Honeydukes Sweet Shop and Zonko's Joke Shop. Chey thought it over, and after Edward described them, they didn't seem like very appealing locales for anyone over the age of, say, twelve. In addition, he strongly recommended they give Madam Puddifoot's café a wide berth. If the proprietor even got the slightest idea that two passing people might be a couple, she would reach out and rope them into sharing a table.

In addition, while The Three Broomsticks was always crowded, Edward insisted you were almost guaranteed not to be overheard by nature of the fact that there was always a far more interesting conversation than your own. Equipped with this nugget of wisdom, Chey and Fleur made plans to have a drink at the pub.

And packed it was indeed. So much so that it was a fight just to order drinks over the tumultuous buzz of conversations, then simply managing to work one's way to a table was a triumph of planetary proportions on its own.

"I can't vouch for how good these are," Chey said to Fleur, handing her a drink. "They call it butterbeer, but I gotta say it doesn't taste like either one."

"What's life without a little experimentation?" she said with a smile over the noisy atmosphere.

"Worst comes to worst, we could always talk to Ed about getting some scotch." They shared a laugh.

"Are you going to talk to that old man Ollivander or not?" she asked him afer a moment.

"I don't know," he answered. "What do you think?"

"Why is it so important what I think?"

"Can't I value your opinion? I thought chicks loved that."

"It's sweet, yes, but you really need to make the decision on your own," she said tenderly. Then, with a dawn of realization, inquired, "You've asked other people what to do, haven't you?"

"Seriously, how many people could I have asked?"

"Well, there's Viktor and your Aunt," she suggested. "You asked Viktor."

"And he was even less helpful than you were."

"What did he tell you?"

"He said 'How should I know? I'm not the one with a wand in my arm.'"

"Yes, I can see how that would disappoint you." She sighed in exasperation, and pulled a coin from her purse. "I hoped you would figure this out for yourself, but I suppose now I need to step in."

"You're finally going to give me your opinion?"

"On the one hand, by meeting with this man you may be able to increase your power and learn a little more about yourself. One the other, you would have to put up with being someone's research project and there's the possibility that others may learn some of your secrets. I'm going to flip this coin and it will decide for you."

"Fair enough," Chey said. "Heads I go, tails I don't."

She flipped the coin, and it spun gracefully in the air before she caught it in a single deft move and slammed it to the table. But she wouldn't remove her hand to show the upturned face of the coin. She only sat across from him and beamed her angelic smile.

"Admit it," she said. "You want it to show one face more than the other."

Chey couldn't deny it. The thought of the coin turning heads-up worried him far more than if it showed tails. "You're right. It's settled; I'm not going."

"You're welcome."

"How'd you get so damn smart?"

"You think I wasn't this smart before?"

"Not that I ever noticed."

Fleur said nothing. Instead she splashed him with what little bit of butterbeer remained in her bottle.

As they departed the pub, their high spirits were dashed by the unpleasant appearance by one Rita Skeeter in her standard magenta robes, with her paunchy photographer in tow.

"And my isn't this pleasant!" the gossip reporter beamed at the pair through golden teeth and flashy spectacles.

"Not really," Chey said without missing a beat, but she acted as though she couldn't hear him.

"A Triwizard Champion and the Mediator out for a drink together! Could this mean there is a budding romance in the midst of all this competition?"

"Could," Chey said with a sarcastic smile, "or it could just be two old classmates catching up on old times. You be the judge."

"You don't think she'll read too much into this, do you?" Fleur asked as they left Skeeter behind at the entrance to the pub.

"I can almost guarantee she will," Chey said. "But I get the feeling she doesn't have enough to launch any kind of scandal. Besides, she looks like she's having too much fun writing about Specks. Come to think of it, I'm really starting to worry about the kid. It's not like he asked for..."

"What's wrong," Fleur asked.

Chey had stopped suddenly in the street. It wasn't that something was explicitly wrong, just that Hermione had just passed them and something seemed to be following her. Nothing was visible behind her, but it was definitely there. But it wasn't the presence of something that Chey was sensing, but more the absence of anything. There was truly nothing there. Not a speck of magic at all in that strange person-sized void which stayed right by Hermione's side.

"Chey?" Fleur said again.

"Nothing," Chey said, snapping himself back to reality.

* * *

Author's note.

Saw the midnight showing of the Half-Blood Prince movie. As a depiction of the book, it sucked. But as a sequel to the other movies it was pretty good. All in all, visual effects were great, excellent depiction of Bellatrix as a psycho, Draco looks like he's made a few trips to Hot Topic, the Inferi hand jumping out of the water was predictable, and what the hell happened to the big fight at the end? And I may be jaded by all these bleeding heart "save the children" ads, but the death scenes left me yawning. And Alan Rickman is still awesome.

Those are my thoughts.

-Termite.


	50. Chapter 50, The Worst Kept Secret

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifty

The Worst Kept Secret

* * *

The following evening, Chey snuck out of the dormitory around midnight and crept out onto the grounds. He had no fear of being caught by a teacher, for he had a rightful reason to be out so late. Rather, he worried about being spotted by any of the more excitable students. As it was this close to the First Task, they would be right to assume his late-night wandering had something to do with the Tournament.

Across the dark grounds he walked, past the Beauxbatons carriage, towards the edge of the forest. After checking to be sure he wasn't being followed, he pressed forward. As per Charlie's instructions, he walked further and further into the words, until the castle grounds, which were so bright in comparison, disappeared. Light from the moon, once only filtering through the branches and leaves, now no longer reached the forest floor in even the slightest bit.

Finally, when thoughts of dubiety began to float to the top of his mind about whether he was going the right way, he heard the shouts and roars which banished all doubts could be heard from just ahead.

The closer he approached, the more visible the commotion before him became. Flashes of orange light flickered between the trees and frantic shouts became louder. He finally broke through the last line of trees and saw the four dragons and their handlers. The quartet of thrashing dragons all had their heavy leather collars, with up to five chains attached to each leading to a keeper. Closest to Chey was a steely blue Swedish Short-Snout which Chey recognized as Olga, a fairly temperamental dragon from the Romanian reservation. Behind Olga were two more dragons. One was a smooth-scaled Welsh Green which had no doubt been brought over on loan from the MacFusty clan's second reservation in Wales, and the other was a spiked and lion-like Chinese Fireball from Nu Jiang.

But to the left of these dragons, all of which Chey considered entirely manageable by any handler's standards, was a hardened, yellow-eyed, black scaled Hungarian Horntail.

"CHARLIE!" Chey shouted, and by some miracle he was heard over the roars and shouts of the dragons and their keepers. Charlie Weasley's head turned towards Chey in reaction. "WHAT THE FUCK IS SHE DOING HERE?"

"If you get your bloody arse over here I might be able to answer some questions!" Charlie shouted back as the Horntail reared up and shot a forty-foot flame into the air.

Desperate for answers, Chey fired a stunner at the dragon's spiked head. She recoiled, and Chey fired two more before conjuring a chain which whipped around her neck. She gave an almighty lurch and whipped the chain away before Chey could get a hold of it, and with her spiked tail flailing away there was no hope of any transfigured rock dragons lasting longer than a few seconds against her.

The Horntail reared back and shot a jet of fire straight at Chey, and he was just barely able to shield himself with a defensive spell. But her flame was not a mere momentary burst, as Chey soon learned when he began to feel his shield charm failing under the pressure of the dragon's attack.

As suddenly as the Horntail might have whipped her tail from side to side, the flame attack stopped when a copper-colored blur impacted her side. It tumbled away, then took to the sky again and a jet of fire erupted as it flew overhead. Then, almost too fast too see with the naked eye, it changed direction and dove straight for the Horntail's neck. It dodged a plume of fire and made impact, knocking her to the ground and stunning her for long enough for Chey to charm his stone dragons to life to subdue her.

When she was secure, Chey finally saw what had intervened on his behalf, and saw it to be his own pet Peruvian, Vipey. He growled at the fallen Horntail, then when she was secured by the keepers he bounded towards Chey and greeted him his typical play-fighting manner. But his joviality would have to wait.

"Thanks for the help, Chey," Charlie said as he walked away from the subdued dragon. "She didn't take kindly to waking up in an unfamiliar area, as you can tell."

"Yeah, I noticed," Chey said. "You know what else I noticed?"

"We already know-"

"Do you? Do you even remember what happened the last time we went into her cell? I know a lot of new recruits pass through, but in my opinion, it seems damn near impossible for everyone at the reserve to forget about MacElroy!"

"Yeah, Agnes has killed before. We're already aware of that."

"Then why is she here!" Chey said, with visions of MacElroy's death from less than a year ago flashing through his mind.

"You said you needed four dragons!"

"Don't pin this on me, Chuck! You know I never would've asked for her to be anywhere near a damn school!"

"I know it's not ideal-"

"When did you figure that out?"

"Agnes was our last resort!"

"What amazes me is that you considered her at all!"

"You needed nesting mothers of the same weight class," Charlie explained. "You wanted three of them and one extra just in case there was a bit of hatching involved. When we took a tally, all we had was that Swede Olga and this bitch, Agnes. Then we rounded up Helen from Wales and Nu Jiang sent us Ah Chen there. With three mothers we thought we were fine, then you send us that damn letter last month telling us that we'll definitely need four and we knew we didn't have a choice."

Chey couldn't find a retort for Charlie's explanation, save for, "B-but still, Agnes?"

"Oi there, Charlie!" came the friendly voice of Hagrid, who had appeared out of the treeline with Madame Maxime right behind him.

"Aw, shit," Chey swore under his breath when he saw the Beauxbatons headmistress. Her overbearing determination to win any conflict, be it an argument or a friendly contest, was sure to lead her to tell Fleur about the dragons before her which awaited the champions. And with that, the whole point of the first task was ruined. It would be rather hard to test their wits under pressure when they had time to prepare.

"All right, Hagrid?" Charlie answered the groundskeeper. "Real romantic date," he sniggered, noticing Madame Maxime.

Hagrid shuffled his feet, then he said to his companion, "Wan' a closer look?" Maxime stared in awe and moved forward once all the beasts were subdued and properly secure. Several of the handlers began moving the large stone-gray eggs into place.

"Hagrid, should she really be here?" Charlie asked. "She's bound to tell her student, isn't she?"

"Nah," Hagrid said, dreamy-eyed.

"Hey, Chuck," Chey said, trying to bring the subject back to Agnes "you know what bothers me a little more?"

"Drop it, Chey," Charlie dismissed him. "Easy, Hagrid. I've got those eggs counted and I expect to see them all accounted for tomorrow morning!"

Charlie spent a great deal of time trying to keep Hagrid and Madame Maxime away from the beasts while doing his best to avoid rudeness. As such, he had no time to listen to Chey's protests about Agnes. Additionally, Vipey was still eager to greet Chey, so to satisfy the sprightly lizard Chey relented to his affection.

According to the other handlers, Vipey had become increasingly bold when it came to other dragons. His counter-attack against Agnes was only a small example of his audacity, as he'd even taken down Brian, the Hebridian Black, singlehandedly numerous times. When the time came to round up Olga and Agnes for their transport from Romania, it was Vipey who led the corral.

Chey reflected on this, and coordinated with the other handlers to plan a way for Vipey to be on hand during the task. If things went from bad to worse, Chey would have a lot more confidence in Vipey effectively handling such a situation than even a dozen handlers. While nothing definitive was agreed, everyone did concur that the plan would be looked favorably upon by the Tournament coordinators.

As the impromptu meeting drew to a close, Charlie finally managed to shoo away Hagrid and Madame Maxime. Around that time, Chey thought he saw the face of Igor Karkaroff in the treeline, but it swiftly disappeared.

The following morning Chey woke up late (he had not returned to the dormitory until four in the morning), and resolved to ask Dumbledore about the possibility of having Vipey stand by during the task on Tuesday.

"And you're certain your dragon will be of assistance?" the headmaster asked when Chey presented his plan to both him and Charlie in Dumbledore's office.

"He's definitely smart," Chey said. "Saved my ass more than once."

"He helped nearly everyone at one point or another at the reservation," Charlie said.

"As willing as I am to believe you and sanction your plan, I'm not sure the others will approve," Dumbledore said. "The last time someone on these grounds thought he could control a dragon very nearly had disastrous consequences."

"But we wrapped it up nice and tight, though, didn't we?" Charlie said with a knowing smile.

"Who says they have to know?" Chey said. "Since me and Chuck are the dragon experts here, we get to say what's important to keep things safe."

"Are you proposing we keep this detail out of the written plan?" Dumbledore asked, and Chey nodded. "Then you're prepared to take responsibility should your plan go awry?"

"Not really," Chey answered. "Because it's going to work."

"If that's the case, then, I believe you're free to make the arrangements."

With the headmaster's blessing, Charlie and Chey began devising a way to have Vipey on hand to intervene should someone's life be in danger, which was a very real possibility now that Agnes was involved. In the end they agreed the Vipey could soar overhead, hidden in plain sight since all the action would be happening on the ground.

Chey's mind began a battle with itself over whether to raise the issue of Agnes's involvement in the task. Certainly it raised the danger level considerably, but to exclude her would mean they were one dragon short, meaning that the last champion would have an unfair advantage since their dragon would already have faced a champion. Ideally, they could replace her with another middleweight nesting mother with a less volatile temperament. Dragons, however, have highly unpredictable mating patterns, and the odds of finding a replacement that hadn't already been found were next to none.

So Chey resigned himself to just stepping up awareness among the keepers who would be on hand, and spent the rest of Sunday practicing his _Rocca Draconis_ charm in the forest. By the end of the day, he learned that at most he could sustain five of his stone dragons at any one time, which should be sufficient for restraining Ah Chen, Olga, and Helen, and with the help of all the keepers and Vipey he was mostly certain it would be enough to contain Agnes.

But Agnes still worried him. There wasn't a single champion in this Tournament who he didn't consider a friend. Regardless of who wound up being selected to face Agnes, he knew he wouldn't feel right pitting them against Agnes with only a wand and without the forewarning.

Come to think of it, Chey wondered to himself Monday morning as he walked down to the Great Hall for a late breakfast, chances were that not everyone would be unprepared come the First Task tomorrow. While he wasn't sure whether Madame Maxime would let Fleur in on the secret now that Hagrid and so kindly shown her, he distinctly trusted Karkaroff far shorter than he could throw him. He wasn't sure if he could take solace in the fact that both Harry and Cedric were certainly unaware of the dragons.

Chey rounded a corner on the third floor and passed the Charms corridor. At the end, he saw Harry and Cedric at the end. Cedric seemed to be trying to gather up the contents of his torn bag.

"My bag just split," Cedric said to Harry, "brand-new and all..."

Chey raised his hand, about to call to them when Harry said, "Cedric, the first task is dragons."

Immediately, Chey dodged around the corner and hid with his back against the wall. What exactly was going on?

"What?" Cedric asked out loud the very question Chey was asking in his mind.

"Dragons," Harry spoke quickly. "They've got four, one for each of us, and we've got to get past them."

"Are you sure," Cedric asked, more quietly.

"Dead sure. I've seen them."

"But how did you find out? We're not suppose to know..."

"Never mind," Harry said, and Chey was wondering, much like Cedric no doubt was, just how Harry could have known about the dragons.. "But I'm not the only one who knows. Fleur and Krum will know by now – Maxime and Karkaeroff both saw the dragons too."

It made no sense. If Harry really knew about the First Task, why would he tell Cedric? Anyone really gunning for the top spot in the Tournament would gleam every advantage available.

"Why are you telling me?" Cedric asked, voicing Chey's unspoken thoughts.

"It's just... fair, isn't it?" Harry said. "We all know now... we're on an even footing, aren't we?"

Of course, Harry wasn't really gunning for the top spot. Officially, he had been thrust into the competition without his consent. Perhaps Harry was more high-minded than Chey first imagined. The boy clearly deserved more credit than he was given by his peers.

But now all the champions knew about the dragons. Chey did feel he could breathe easier now that this was confirmed. On the other hand the whole point of the task testing their daring was so far out the window it would be considered a long-distance phone call. Though concern about the integrity of the tasks intentions left Chey's mind when he remembered that Agnes was now involved.

A familiar uneven clunking sound echoed through the corridor.

"Come with me, Potter," said Moody's growling voice. "Diggory, off you go."

"Er – Professor, I'm supposed to be in Herbology-" Harry started.

"Never Mind that, Potter. In my office, please..."

Had Moody overheard? Chey heard all three leave, and debated following Harry and Moody. If Harry was about to be reprimanded for disclosing the particulars of the First Task, Chey should probably be present. He was the Triwizard Mediator, after all. But if Moody had heard, why was he taking Harry to his own office and not Dumbledore's?

After peeking around the corner and looking down both corridors to ensure the way was clear, he made good use of his Animagus power by shape shifting into his signature silvery-gray coated fox and took off down the hallway. He arrived at the place where the three conversationalists had stood and mapped out their scents. One scent trail, which reeked of ink, went towards a nearby classroom. The two others must have been Harry and Moody, for they trailed off to a staircase that went to the second floor.

When Chey approached the staircase and looked down, he immediately recoiled. A gaggle of giggling sixth year girls was walking up that very staircase, and he wasn't in much of a mood to be fawned over and praised at how cute he may look in his alternate form.

Finally, after what seemed like a brief eternity, the tittering girls arrived at the landing, got their bearings, and set off to wherever it was they were going, Chey emerged from behind the statue of a humpbacked witch and followed the scent trail left by Harry and Professor Moody.

Their trail led to the office of the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher on the second floor. Chey ducked into a corner near the door and listened."

"So," Came Moody's voice, "found out about the dragons have you?" Understandably, Harry didn't answer. Chey wouldn't have answered if he was in Harry's position either. "It's all right. Cheating's a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and always has been."

"I didn't cheat," Harry said quickly. "It was... sort of an accident that I found out."

"I wasn't accusing you, laddie. I've been telling Dumbledore from the start, he can be as high-minded as he likes, but you can bet old Karkaroff and Maxime won't be. They'll have told their champions everything they can. They want to win. They want to beat Dumbledore. They'd like to prove he's only human."

Moody gave a harsh laugh. Chey would have liked to listen longer, but the ever ill-timed mangy cat Mrs. Norris rounded the corner and was sure to be unhappy that another animal was prowling her halls. Chey abandoned his listening post to find a secluded location to change back to his human form.

* * *

Author's Note.

Has it really been six months since my last update? Wow.

Some of you may have written this off as a dead story, but rest assured I'm always thinking about it. I just haven't had much time to work on it thanks to multiple projects for school and I started a new job. If only I could type while driving, I could probably get a lot of this writing stuff done. But I shouldn't type while driving. That's dangerous. Don't type and drive, kids!

As a side note, I added some content to my website. The front page now has a link so you can watch a montage of my work (even the music is mine), and in the Videos section I added a Gatorade commercial I made for school. Also, I hope soon to have two new websites up and running, Action Pancakes and Kung-Fu Meatballs. There's a funny story behind those names. I'll tell you some other time.

Anyhow, seeing as it is the season once again, Merry Christmas to all, Happy Holidays to the rest, and political correctness be damned!

Oh, and Happy New Year! This year I resolve to think up a better resolution for next year.

-Termite.


	51. Chapter 51, Safety Protocols

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-One

Safety Protocols

* * *

For the rest of the day, it was incredibly obvious that every champion knew about the dragons. During lunchtime, Fleur cornered Chey and asked about Constance, the aged and oversized Ironbelly at the Romanian reservation.

"Are all dragons harmless when they sleep?" she asked.

"Yes and no," was Chey's answer. "I like to think of them like propane tanks. Leave them alone and they won't bother you, but if you smack them with a big enough stick, you get a big fiery explosion." Of course, he had to explain to her just what a propane tank was as her purely magical upbringing gave her no frame of reference.

On his way to his Transfiguration lesson with Minerva that afternoon, where he would make yet another attempt at transfiguring three rooms into one, Hermione had intercepted him on the stairway.

"You work with Ron's brother, Charlie, right?" she asked him. "You'd know a lot about dragons."

"Sure."

"Then you'd know how well they fly, right?"

"First thing to consider is how big the dragon is," Chey began his explanation, excited someone was finally interested in his field of expertise. "You get yourself something small like a Roccaverden or a Vipertooth, and it'll fly circles around a stunt plane at an air show. Move up into the middleweight class, that includes your Opaleyes, Longhorns, Fireballs, Blacks, and Ridgebacks, and you get some really good soaring types. Really good for long distance, and it takes a while for them to get tired. Any bigger than that, like an Ironbelly, and it's more efficient for them to rampage in a straight line on the ground if they want to get anywhere."

Only after he'd said all this did he remember that Hermione tended to spend an awful lot of time with Harry, one of the Champions.

"Why do you ask?" he added.

"Oh, silly, really," she said. "Ron swears that Krum can out-fly anything, even a dragon. Anyway, I really need to get to Ancient Runes. Bye!"

That was one of the worst formulated lies of all time, Chey thought to himself as she escaped down the hallway. She was probably on her way to tell Harry that very moment, and there was nothing Chey could do about it.

Neither Viktor nor Cedric mentioned anything about dragons to Chey. Though Viktor had certainly been spending a great deal of time in the library, and some of the books he was reading were about dangerous magical creatures. And it didn't take a seer to know that Cedric was preparing to tangle with a dragon in his own way.

Chey seriously considered alerting Dumbledore and the other officials to the fact that the secret was out. He knew that some would be concerned about the integrity of the task.

Ordinarily, he would confide his worries in Fleur or Viktor, depending on who he thought could give better insight. Obviously he couldn't in this case, so seeing no alternative he paid a visit to...

* * *

"Aunt Em, I got a question."

Minerva seemed annoyed he had bothered her during one of her fleeting moments of free time, but willing to take his question nonetheless. Perhaps it was because they were related.

"If the secret was out on what's going down in the First Task, you think someone official should know?"

She sighed and folded her square-framed spectacles, setting them down in front of her. "Which champion found out?"

"All of 'em," Chey said, stealing a cookie from the tin on her desk. Then he put the cookie back after his first bite revealed walnuts.

"Are you sure?"

"Yep. Shaggy brought Maxime-"

"Who's Shaggy?"

"Big guy, lots of hair."

"Hagrid, yes. Go on."

"Shaggy brought Maxime to the pen where we got the dragons, and this morning Fleur started asking me particulars about them. And I thought I saw Karkaroff down there, and now Viktor's checking out books about dangerous creatures. And this morning I overheard Specks telling-"

"Specks?"

"Harry."

"Right, Potter."

"He was telling Cedric about the dragons this morning. No, I don't know how he found out. Oh, and Moody overheard this too, but didn't do anything about it."

"Then everyone knows?"

"Looks like it. Got any cookies without nuts?"

"I don't think it's anything to worry about," Minerva said, ignoring Chey's question about her supply of sweets.

"You sure?"

"The task is tomorrow. I doubt there's time to rectify the situation. And if all four of them have been forewarned, the competition will still be fair."

"Makes sense."

"I'm amazed it took this long for the secret to come out. Quite frankly it's rare a secret goes untold in these walls."

"So why bother, right?

"Precisely."

"Great. You can be the one to tell Chief."

"Who?"

"Your boss."

"I don't understand why you can't call someone by their name," Minerva sighed.

"Goodbye, Em," Chey said, turning for the door. "Gonna take another shot at that damn room." He got to the door, and just before he exited her office, said, "By the way, your assignment is too damn hard."

* * *

On the morning of the Task, Chey could tell everyone was excited. Except for the Champions. All four of them seemed to be walking in a daze when Chey saw them. Viktor had apparently abandoned his books about dangerous creatures, which meant that either he had his strategy, or he'd given up on finding answers in printed media.

As per Dumbledore's suggestion, Chey grabbed a quick and early breakfast before venturing down to the pavilion where the four ferocious nesting mothers awaited. It was decided that there should be a meeting of the handlers and some Tournament officials before the task started, and it would be easier to coordinate if there weren't hundreds of very excited schoolchildren nearby.

Chey crossed the grounds in the chilly November air and approached the place in the forest where the dragons were kept. He reached the spot, and saw that a huge tent had been erected as an entranceway. On either side he saw paths which no doubt led to the stadium seats where the other students would watch the task.

He walked through the flap of the tent and found Bagman, Crouch, Moody, Hagrid and Charlie talking amongst one another.

"Surely there's risk with any dragon," Charlie was saying to Crouch, "but we took stock of everything and we're sure everything will be-"

"There's our Mediator!" Bagman called jovially, bounding over to where Chey stood, apparently to shake his hand. Startled, Chey sidestepped quickly and caused Bagman to stumble further, almost leaving the tent. "Ah, right then," he said as he composed himself. "Well, here you are. I'm sure you know everyone here."

Has he ever heard of a heart attack, Chey wondered to himself about Bagman's exuberance.

"What else you got planned, boy?" Moody asked Charlie.

"Him," Charlie answered, pointing at Chey. "Chey's the best handler I've ever seen, and he'll be right at the edge."

"Close to the action, eh?" Bagman said, still very excited. "I know just what the feeling's like, my boy."

If Crouch didn't sigh audibly, he certainly did visibly with that scowl of his.

"Yea sure Chey can handle it, Charlie?" Hagrid said.

"You've obviously never seen him take down a Hebridian," Charlie answered.

Hagrid was no doubt easily impressed, for he said to Chey, "Well, if anything happens, think of it like your first exam."

"Yeah, I guess I would be in your class right about now, wouldn't I?" Chey said.

"Any plans yourself, lad?" Moody asked, his magical eye surveying Chey.

"I got a few tricks up my sleeve," Chey said, thinking of Vipey. Then he decided it wouldn't be a bad thing to brag a bit right then. "Like, I can charm up and control up to five full-sized dragons out of the rocks we're standing on."

"Ah, brilliant!" Bagman said. Clearly no one could say anything without him commenting on it. "Fighting dragons with your own dragons! Sounds exciting!"

"Actually, they fall apart like nobody's business in a fight. But they do make a good distraction."

"Another point I'd like to bring up," Charlie said, "is who's in charge on the field. Now I talked it over with the other keepers, and we agree that Chey should be the one to make the calls."

"He's not even out of school yet," Moody growled

"I got a Class Echo," Chey rebounded. "That's the highest certification anyone can get back home when it comes to magical creatures. And as much as I hate to drop names, you can call up Secretary Forsythe to check. He's the one that certified my license."

"Well, I'm game if you gentlemen are," Bagman said to his colleagues.

Chey's mention of an American official seemed to put Crouch at ease, and Moody relented as well, if only slightly.

"All right then, Barty. The Champions should be on there way here soon. What say we go and meet with the Headmasters?"

"Very well," Crouch agreed unenthusiastically.

"Off we get, then. Oh, and Chey, my boy," Bagman stopped and handed over a squirming sack of purple silk, "You'll be the one to tell our champions what's what."

"What's the bag got to do with anything?" Chey said, tentatively taking the small bag.

"That's how we'll decide who goes when. We've made up miniatures of the dragons, and we'll have them draw from the bag, and that'll decide the order they'll go out."

"All right then," Chey said, reaching into the bag and examining a miniature of a Welsh Green.

"Excellent! Well, we're off. Keep our champions safe, now boys!" Bagman said, and the two ministry officials departed.

"Well, Chey," Charlie said, "I suppose we should have you take a look at the field, right?"

"Sounds good to me," Chey said to his colleague, stowing the bag into his robe's inside pocket.

"Constant vigilance, boy," Moody snarled to Chey as they left the tent.

"Uh, yeah whatever," he replied. "Kind of a nut, isn't he?" Chey asked when they were finally out of earshot.

"Well, there's a reason he's called 'Mad-Eye' Moody," Charlie answered. "Spent so long fighting dark wizards he just couldn't stop. Made him a touch paranoid."

"I understand that, but he takes paranoid to a whole new level. The way he teaches, you'd think everyone's got an assassin waiting for them around the corner. Not a healthy frame of mind in a social situation."

"But it's brilliant here at Hogwarts, especially since Peeves hasn't been evicted yet."

"I hear that."

Charlie and Chey arrived at a large, heavy oak door, which Charlie heaved open to reveal the field. As if they'd been reading Chey's mind, the ground had been bewitched from it's usual forest floor into bare rock with spires and boulders aplenty, perfect for conjuring his rock dragons.

"On the far side there is the gate to the dragons," Charlie explained. "And we'll have Vipey disillusioned and flying overhead so he'll be able to get a good ramming speed if we need him."

"Where can I stand?"

"We don't want the dragons to be distracted by you, so we've got a platform that runs all the way around the walls. That should keep enough distance between you and them while giving you a good line of sight on everything."

"Good thinking."

"What's your plan for control?"

"Soon as they get the egg, everyone moves in. Those girls aren't gonna want to move too far from the nest, which means the champions will have to get real close, and I don't want a loose mother near them for longer than we have to."

"Right. What about Vipey?"

"Depends. What's the order we're sending the dragons out?"

"We'll start with Olga, the Shortsnout. Then Ah Chen and Helen. I figured Agnes would be best put last."

"...So if it all goes fubar, it's more likely to happen later. Makes sense."

"Exactly. So where do you want your pet?"

"I'll have him circle overhead. He's pretty smart, so I'll trust him to figure out if the whole thing's gone to hell."

"If you say so. Any guidelines for the rest of us?"

"I'd say standard protocol. Keep an eye out for anything weird in their behavior and watch me for cues. When you see rock dragons, it's definitely time to move in."

"Right, just like with Brian."

"Yeah, except I'd rather be dealing with Brian than Agnes."

"That makes two of us. Most of us will be standing right above the gate, ready to go."

"Gotcha." With nothing else to do coming to mind, Chey said, "Well, let's jump right in and go for it."

* * *

Author's note.

Long, long time, dear readers. Took some time off from writing to work at my old job and graduate from college (yay me!) and other boring stuff like that. Only thing on my plate now is job hunting. And seeing as my time is otherwise unoccupied, I got more time for writing, both my screenplays and Spirit of Fear.

In so far as Spirit of Fear goes, I'll be splitting the story in two. The first part (the one you're reading), will be stopping at the end of Book 4's canon, and will be called Spirit of Fear: The Misguided Fox. The second part will pick up right after, and you won't know what it's called until we get there. Don't give me that look. I gotta keep some suspense alive. The split will mostly be done because I feel that if I'm intimidated by a 10-chapter book, how intimidated are new readers gonna be by a 200-chapter fanfic?

Anyway, I've probably been absent long enough for some to have given up on , and I'm sorry I couldn't have devoted more time to telling Chey's story. To all of you still around, I really want to thank you for keeping Chey and his lovable Vipertooth in mind. And to all you new readers, who probably won't get to this chapter for some time, but whatever, thanks for giving us a look!

And now that this chapter is up, back to some more job searching for a while!

-Termite.


	52. Chapter 52, How to Get Past Your Dragon

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Two

How To Get Past Your Dragon

* * *

After some last-minute preparations, mostly involving heavy chains on the dragons for the task and casting a Disillusionment Charm on Vipey, everything was in place for the first task of the tournament. The copper-colored Vipertooth didn't take well to being disillusioned, as he writhed about trying to shake off the cold trickling sensation, but Chey talked him down and eventually Vipey took to the sky and began his holding pattern.

Finally, everything seemed to be ready. Charlie and the other handlers were in place, the dragons were properly contained, and Chey got word that all four champions had assembled at the tent.

As the school population descended on the makeshift stadium, Chey entered the tent to find Fleur sitting on a low stool, looking as worried as she'd been the night of the World Cup. Viktor stood in the corner looking like he always did before a Quidditch match while Cedric paced back and forth, working off his nerves. Harry seemed a world apart, staring at his shoes, looking up only when he finally noticed Chey.

And it finally hit Chey just how dangerous everything was. Here he was, about to send four of his friends virtually unarmed and alone to face dragons. Why didn't it bother him before? Sure, they most likely all knew what was coming and there were all kinds of safety precautions, but the fact remained that none of them had any experience handling dragons of any size, and they were about to go up against fully-sized dragons at their most dangerous. Worse yet was Agnes was one of them, the most dangerous creature Chey had ever encountered.

"Hey guys," Chey greeted them, trying to sound upbeat despite knowing someone was bound to face Agnes. "Show of hands, how many of you skipped breakfast?"

They were decidedly not amused, so Chey sighed and abandoned further attempts at light-heartedness.

"Ok, let's just get down to it. Out there is the task. You'll go out one at a time, and we'll figure out who goes when by having you draw out of this bag once everyone watching is in their seats," Chey showed them the silk bag holding the miniature dragons. "We've got one for each of you, so nobody has to share." He cringed inside at his own words, and Fleur looked a little more crestfallen at these words. Perhaps she was hoping for the chance of fighting a half-worn out dragon.

"Your job is simple. There's a golden egg, and you have to fetch it. Once you get your hands on it, it's over. When it's over, we'll jump in right away. I'll be right there on the edge of the field, so if you think you can't handle it, let me know. Also, if I think you're in over your head, I will stop the match."

"Will zat 'urt our score?" Fleur asked, her competitive nature shining through her current state of worry.

"It'll mean your points are forfeit and you won't get any-"

"Then don't interfere," Viktor interrupted.

"Fuck that," Chey snapped. "This stupid contest is not worth any of you getting hurt or killed." Chey looked at them all, and saw that Harry and Cedric were slightly relieved, but as expected Viktor and Fleur seemed to find his words cliché. They had no idea how bad Agnes was. "Look, I know you all know what's waiting for you out there. To be honest, I'm not completely happy with how it turned out. One of you is gonna have to wind up facing the most dangerous mother fucker I've ever seen. If the shit hits the fan, I'm pulling you out and I'm not gonna take any lip from you."

Chey wasn't sure what to make of how the four champions reacted. They may have been moved by his devotion to them, or they may have been frustrated by his thick-headedness. Either way, all were silent as hundreds of pairs of feet thundered above them as the bystanders entered the stands.

As the audience filed into their seats, Chey contemplated rigging who would get the Horntail. Certainly, he could do it easily, as no one was around to point the finger at him, but who would get it? Giving Agnes to Cedric wouldn't be fair, since Chey had no real idea how capable of handling any dragon Cedric was, and Harry had at least a 3 year's worth of handicapped experience compared to the others. That left Fleur and Viktor, and Chey found it impossible to choose between his best friend and his girlfriend.

Before Chey could make up his mind whether to influence the Tournament, the thundering footsteps died down and the time came to have the champions draw for their assigned dragon.

Chey knew they all had an even chance to avoid drawing Agnes, but foolish superstition told Chey that whoever drew first would stand a better chance. With that thought in his head, he headed straight for Fleur with the purple silk bag.

"Just, uh, reach right in and grab one of them," he told her. She did so, her hand shaking even though she kept her face well composed. She shuddered ever so slightly as she grasped one of the miniature dragons and pulled it from the bag. She had drawn Helen, the Welsh Green, and would go third as indicated by the number three hanging from the miniature's neck.

Chey then turned to Viktor and Cedric. Viktor stepped forward, possibly because he wanted to get it over with. He pulled out the Chinese Fireball, Ah Chen and would be going second. Next was Cedric. He reluctantly reached into the bag and pulled out his dragon.

As Chey feared, Cedric drew Olga the Shortsnout. This meant the only pair left was Agnes and Harry. The most unqualified champion would be facing the most dangerous dragon of the group.

Before Chey knew it, Harry had taken the small representation of Agnes with a number four hanging around her neck from the bag.

"Well, Ced, you're up first. The rest of you, just wait here and I'll get you when it's your turn."

Chey led the way out of the tent and Cedric silently followed. His walk had a stiffness to it, which was probably his way of showing nerves. At last they reached the opening to the enclosure.

"You good to go?" Chey asked him, and Cedric nodded.

Feeling that if he didn't let the task start soon they'd send someone else to start it for him, Chey climbed up to the ledge which surrounded the enclosure, and motioned for Cedric to enter.

Across from Cedric was Shortsnout, Olga. She lay low over her clutch of eggs, head down, wings raised, and tail whipping.

Cedric approached slowly, wand at the ready. Strangely, with each step he seemed to grow more confident. Even as Olga bristled, he stood strong. He pointed his wand at a loose boulder and it turned into a large dog, which immediately took off towards the dragon. At the same time, Cedric charged forward behind it.

Clearly, his strategy was to send in a decoy, and indeed it seemed to be working. Olga's eyes were following the transfigured dog as it barked and jumped energetically. The dog even wandered too close and was almost hit by her tail.

Like Olga, Chey had become distracted by the dog and completely lost track of Cedric. He frantically searched the field for Cedric, and at last spotted him to Olga's right, sneaking around the boulders, completely unnoticed by the great beast.

The plan was progressing brilliantly. Olga was spending all her time watching the labrador while Cedric meandered about as if invisible. However, Cedric was missing a key bit of information: Olga had the attention span of a goldfish.

In almost no time at all, Olga had lost interest in the infernal dog and turned to look for other threats to her precious eggs. And indeed she found one, scrambling on the ground not ten yards away from her leg.

Cedric looked up just as Olga spotted him. It seemed like minutes, the two of them staring at each other. Then, finally, Olga lifted her left leg to shift her stance, crushing the transfigured dog by coincidence. The shock of staring such a great beast must have been a shock to Cedric, because he was late to realize that Olga was about to shoot fire at him.

As the crowd held its collective breath, flames engulfed Cedric for only an instant, then the invisible barrier of a Protego charm shielded him. Even so, that short instant was enough to set his shirt ablaze. Chey immediately considered interfering, but incredibly, Cedric continued his path to the clutch of eggs, even as Olga kept up the stream of fire. Cedric amazingly kept up the shield charm the whole way to the eggs as his shirt burned away into black smoke.

At last, Cedric made it to the clutch of eggs, snatching up the golden one, and Chey immediately cast his freezing charm on the air. The flames extinguished themselves for lack of heat. Olga recoiled in surprise, and the handlers rushed out to contain her.

Only now did Chey realize that Bagman had been commenting on Cedric's attempt.

"Very good indeed!" he shouted. "And now, the marks from the judges!"

Chey didn't care about Cedric's score. He instead focused on helping Cedric as much as he could from his perch at the edge of the field. Cedric's burns had to be bad, as Chey could no longer see any part of Cedric's shirt. He decided the best way to help from so far away was to cast a more mild freezing charm to cool the burns. A bit of steam rose from Cedric's wounds as the charm did its work.

"One down, three to go!" Bagman rambled. "Time for our next Champion, the rugged Viktor Krum!"

Once Chey saw Minerva and the school nurse, Madame Pomfrey, rushing over to tend to Cedric, he knew he would be fine. It was, as Bagman said, time to bring Viktor to face his dragon. Leaving Cedric to Minerva and the nurse, he departed for the champions' tent.

When he opened the tent flap, he saw that Fleur was pacing just as Cedric had been, Harry stared even further into space, and Viktor took to his usual brooding to the side.

"Hey, Viktor," he said, "you're up."

Viktor silently stood up and walked to the enclosure. Chey wanted to say something to the others, but couldn't think of any words of comfort. Instead, he just turned and walked with Viktor.

"Chey," Viktor said as they walked to the arena, "That Potter boy, how old is he?"

"Fourteen, I think," he answered. It was an odd question. Most would be more concerned with the fifty foot dragon waiting for them.

"And that Horntail, it's the one you spoke of, yes?"

"...Yeah, that'd be the one."

Viktor became very pensive. For the rest of the walk to the enclosure, he didn't say anything.

At last, they reached the edge of the field. Before climbing up to the edge, all Chey could think to say was, "Well, good luck out there."

"Chey," Viktor interrupted, "I don't think Potter is ready for this."

"Yeah, no shit."

"Watch him. Keep him out of trouble."

"That's what I'm here for."

"Just do it right. He's a good kid."

Before Chey could answer, Viktor entered the field. Chey scrambled up to the ledge to get into position.

Opposite Viktor was the crimson Chinese Fireball. Unlike Olga, Ah Chen stood tall over her eggs. In front of her, Viktor assumed the same intensity he showed for every Quidditch game. The two stared intently at each other, sizing up their competition.

Where Cedric was stealthy and defensive, Viktor staged an all-out assault. His Conjunctivus Curse was dead-on accurate, hitting Ah Chen square in the eye and sending the sound of an almighty whip cracking through the air. The Fireball howled in pain, and began thrashing about while Viktor rushed in with all the speed of his Wronsky Feint.

The closer Viktor got to the clutch, the more he had to dodge the flailing dragon. Ah Chen was completely out of control, and there was no telling what she would hit next. Everyone in the audience looked genuinely frightened as she shot giant plumes of fire into the air.

Apart from the brutish assault, Viktor's plan was cunning. The dragon had no time to bother with Viktor, the pain was so severe. Trouble was that her pain was so severe she forgot about her precious eggs. Half of the stone-gray eggs were crushed by Ah Chen just as Viktor snatched the golden one from under her.

Fearing more for the eggs and certain that Viktor would be safe, Chey conjured heavy chains which wrapped around the Fireball and pulled her away from Viktor and the eggs. He rushed forward to alleviate Ah Chen's pain.

Minerva and Madam Pomfrey rushed in to check on Viktor, and it was then that Chey knew Viktor was fine. He cast as strong an Episky spell as he could on the dragon, and she finally calmed down enough that he could dissolve the chains away. Ah Chen had exhausted herself by thrashing around so much that she just collapsed.

Chey looked back at Viktor, who looked back and waved to say he was fine. It was time to get Fleur.

"Fleur," he said when he entered the tent, and she jumped as if the dragon had said it. "You ready?"

She steeled herself and nodded. She walked towards him, wand gripped tightly in her trembling hand. In an almost trance-like state, she marched alongside him.

"Are you ok?"

"O-of course," she strained to say.

"No you're not."

"But I will be."

He couldn't help but admire her. "Yeah, I got a feeling we'll always be ok." He kissed her and climbed up to the outer ledge.

Something about being in public drew out the confidence in Fleur. Never once in the year he had known her did Chey ever see her show hesitation or fear when they weren't alone. Perhaps that was a sign of her trust in him that she felt comfortable showing such vulnerability to him and him alone.

But now, with hundreds of eyes upon her, she showed no sign of backing down, and Chey worried it might be over-confidence.

She stepped onto the field to find Helen the Welsh Green already in place. She was curled around her eggs, warming them with her fire. When Fleur entered the arena, Helen sharpened up, glaring at Fleur.

Helen must have decided Fleur was more than enough of a threat, for she shot a jet of fire directly at her. Fleur, with her natural grace, deftly avoided the inferno. She looked so incredibly beautiful and fierce dodging the fire in and among the boulders. Bagman was still commentating as she ran about, but it was so inconsequential that Chey just tuned it out. Eventually she found a large enough boulder to hide behind and ride out the firestorm.

She hid from Helen's gaze, crawling undercover. But Helen was no fool; she continued to search for Fleur.

After waiting for what seemed an eternity, she jumped up and aimed her wand at Helen's head. But instead of attacking, Helen just stared. Both of them just stared at each other. Slowly, Helen lowered her head, closing her eyes.

When Fleur eased forward, wand still raised and focused on the Welsh Green, Chey realized what she had done. She had put the dragon under a trance and sent her into a deep slumber. Once Helen was fully under, Fleur advanced to the eggs.

This was indeed the best executed plan of attack Chey had seen all day. Fleur, of course, had to keep her wand trained on Helen to keep her asleep. With no difficulty at all, Fleur had arrived at the clutch and reached for the golden one.

It was at this point that a brief jet of flame erupted from Helen's nostrils, catching Fleur's skirt aflame. She put it out with water from her wand, but this broke the spell on Helen, and she started to stir. Fleur quickly snatched the golden egg and got away from Helen.

Chey knew that a waking dragon would not take kindly to being moved, so he rushed forward to keep her sedated.

"Easy, Helen, down girl," he said to her, casting a calming spell. Charlie also approached the dragon, and Chey said to Helen, "Hey, remember Charlie? Follow him, ok?"

Helen sleepily looked at Charlie, who looked at Chey and shrugged.

"Sorry she set your girlfriend on fire," Charlie said, stifling a laugh.

"What the hell was that, Chuck?"

"Chey," he heard Fleur's irritated voice behind him, "you said dragons were 'armless when zey slept."

"Sorry about that," Charlie said to her. "Helen's got a bit of a snoring problem."

Fleur glared at Chey as if this was his fault.

"Well how was I supposed to know? The MacFusty clan handles the Greens, not us." She was not amused. "Come on, they're gonna show your scores in a minute and I have to go get Specks."

"Alright," she sighed.

"For what it's worth," Chey said, "you did great out there."

She finally smiled and gave him a kiss before letting him go. Charlie and the other handlers walked the still-entranced Helen out of the arena as Chey headed for the champions' tent, where the one remaining champion waited.

Harry had not moved an inch since he'd drawn the Horntail. He looked at Chey as if he was being escorted to the gallows.

"Come on, Specks. You're up."

Harry stood and walked out of the tent in as much of a trance as Helen was. His walk was almost robotic. Chey suspected that Harry wished he wasn't there, as if not being escorted would give him a chance to escape.

"Specks, listen," Chey said, thinking the only thing keeping Harry grounded in sanity was having a fellow human being present. "It's not fair, you being in this thing. And I'll be honest, when you picked that dragon you got the shortest end of the stick anyone's ever gotten. That Horntail is the most dangerous dragon on the Romanian reserve, and since she's nesting she's even worse."

"You don't make a lot of positive speeches, do you?" Harry asked, startled by Chey's honesty.

"I'm giving you the honest no-bullshit assessment, kid. You've got just about every odd stacked against you out there: you're younger and less experienced, so that makes you the underdog. Add to it, you ended up with the meanest bitch lizard I've ever seen. I'm trained to deal with dragons, and I wouldn't be surprised if I messed up out there."

"Is this supposed to make me feel better about fighting a dragon?"

"Don't worry so much about winning. If you do, that's great, but failing doesn't make you the worst ever. It just means you're not incredibly exceptional. Just do what you can and the rest will take care of itself."

"Funny enough, that does help," Harry said, smiling for the first time Chey had seen in days. "Thanks."

"That's what I'm here for. Knock 'em dead, kid."

Chey climbed up to the ledge for the final time and saw Agnes restlessly shifting over her eggs, the lone golden one glinting amongst the others. Once she saw Harry, she let out a fierce roar which silenced the crowd. She flailed her tail about, smashing apart every stone it struck.

Harry just stood there, raised his wand in the air and cast a spell which Chey could not hear. For minutes, Harry just stood while Agnes continued her show of force. Chey chanced a look to the sky to make sure Vipey was still in the air. He could just barely see the disillusioned Vipertooth circling overhead when suddenly a broomstick missing its rider appeared from over the audience stands.

Chey couldn't believe it: the broom headed straight for Harry and came to a halt by his side. There was no doubt the broom was a Firebolt, the same model that Harry owned, which meant this had to be Harry's broom and he had summoned it!

Is that even allowed?, Chey thought to himself, for he couldn't think of any rule that prohibited summoning charms.

Harry mounted the broom and took to the sky with a speed not unlike Viktor's. He circled the dragon, deftly dodging her spiked tail and flames.

"I'll be damned the kid can fly!" Chey laughed out loud. Harry dove and weaved in the air, the dragon following him with her gaze.

What was Harry trying to do? Get her in the air? He didn't know that dragons don't leave their eggs easily.

Agnes shot a plume of fire at Harry, which he easily dodged. He flew for the clutch, but Agnes's whipping tail grazed his shoulder. He flew higher than before, trying to draw her up.

Finally, and to Chey's amazement, Agnes spread her wings and took to the sky. She must have thought Harry enough of an annoyance to go through the trouble of taking flight.

Harry stole the opportunity to dive for the eggs and before anyone could blink he had snatched the golden one and sped to the edge of the field. Agnes was not slow to see an egg was missing, and immediately aimed her fiery breath at Harry while his back was turned.

Just as she let loose, the invisible bullet that was Vipey slammed into her head, sending her fire all over, but nevertheless away from Harry. The impact caused the disillusionment charm on Vipey to fade, and he scrambled to get disentangled from Agnes. The two growled at each other as Chey sprinted to the scene, transfiguring the surrounding rocks into dragons. The crowd gasped in amazement at all the dragons before them.

Vipey and the stone dragons attacked Agnes at once, yet they were not very effective. The stone dragons crumbled on contact, and Vipey was too small and didn't have enough speed to make much of a difference against the enraged Horntail. Perhaps, if Chey could just slow her down...

He charmed a long chain at the end of his wand and whipped it around Agnes's neck. Immediately, she pulled hard and Chey lost his footing. He was dragged several feet along the rocks before he finally got a steady footing. Agnes saw him, and shot fire directly at him. All he could do to avoid it was duck behind a boulder, then when she pulled on the chain again he had to brace against the stone. It took all his might to keep from letting go. His arms and legs screamed out in pain, but he knew the best way to handle the situation was to hold on for dear life.

Finally, Charlie and the other handlers stepped in with stunner spells, and Vipey was able to subdue Agnes successfully. The chain Chey was holding went slack and he fell on his back, relieved it was over.

The next thing he remembered was Charlie's freckled face staring down at him.

"You're barking mad, mate," he said, and Chey could only laugh. "I swear you've got a death wish."

"Come on, I gave them a good show, didn't I?" Chey said as Charlie helped him to his feet.

"I'll give you credit for that. But how much of it was just showing off?"

"About half. How's Specks?"

"Just a scratch. He's over there with Professor McGonnagal."

Vipey, now finished with Agnes, came over to Chey and licked his face several times, grateful that he was okay.

"Atta boy, Vipe," Chey said, scratching Vipey behind the cheekbone, exactly where he liked it. Seeing Harry headed for the hospital tent, no doubt under Minerva's instruction, Chey decided to give him the congratulations he deserved. "Stay, boy," Chey told the dragon.

Chey entered the tent after Harry to find Madam Pomfrey tending to his shoulder.

"Now, just sit quietly for a minute," Madame Pomfrey told Harry, "And then you can go and get your score."

"That was some killer flying you did out there, Specks," Chey said as the school nurse left to tend to the badly burned Cedric. "I thought for sure Agnes wouldn't leave those eggs."

"Thanks," Harry smiled broadly, no doubt relieved it was over.

"Between you and me, that was a summoning charm, right?"

"Yeah, I left my Firebolt in the dormitory," he answered sheepishly.

This made Chey curious.

"So, if you could summon something from that far away, why didn't you just summon the egg?"

This, in turn, shocked Harry.

"I could've done that?"

"Well, we sure as hell didn't put anything up to stop you from doing it. And the very second you have the egg, it's over."

"You're joking."

"Nope. I'm kind of surprised nobody thought of it." Harry gave a heavy sigh and his friend, Ron and Hermione entered the tent. "Look, I got a girlfriend out there who's probably still mad at me, so I'll see you later, okay?"

"Yeah, see you later," Harry said, a little more dejected.

Chey left the tent to let Harry catch up with his friends. Outside, Fleur stood waiting for him, still holding the golden egg she had taken from the dragon. Her expression was hard to read, somewhere between frightened and upset.

"What's wrong?" he asked, wondering whether it was wise to ask at all.

"Are you going to continue training dragons?" she asked solemnly.

Chey didn't know what to make of her question. "Um, yeah I guess."

"Would you stop if I asked you?"

"What are you saying?"

"I don't want you doing that anymore, Chey."

"What? Why not?"

"Please, just don't!"

"Why not?"

"Just, please..." she said, almost in tears.

Chey said the only thing he could to that request, no matter what the effect.

"Sorry, but I can't."

She said nothing, just walked away with as much composure as she could muster.

* * *

Author's note:

Something I noticed after posting the last chapter: It has been 3 years since posting the first chapter. Something of a milestone, don't you think?

Sorry this chapter took so long, but writing the first task from an outsider's perspective was tough. See, I wanted to stick to the book as much as possible, but all Rowling gives us is the basic strategy of each champion and snippets of Bagman's commentary. Finally, I decided to abandon structuring everything around Bagman's comments and just wrote how it felt.

Also, I've been distracted by unsuccessful job hunting, but I'm back in the swing. I even started writing a screenplay based on Chey's adventures, only removing the elements from J.K. Rowling's universe. It was actually easier than I thought it would be, since Chey's so well developed.

In other news, I started a video blog, the Unemployment Logs. It's on my regular blog, Hold Your Shoe (link on my profile), and I try to update it weekly. It's nothing fancy, just something I started to keep my video skills sharp and safeguard against going stir crazy.

I'll do my best to keep at this, because I've come too far to abandon this story now. If I did, my creative conscience would never forgive me.

As for this chapter's title, yes I was thinking about the Dreamworks film, "How to Train Your Dragon." I loved that movie and the way they brought the characters and creatures to life, but I think Vipey is way cooler than any of those dragons. Who's with me?

-Termite.


	53. Chapter 53, Company and Conversation

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Three

Company and Conversation

* * *

Chey found himself powerless to follow Fleur as she left him standing outside the tent. Eventually, Hermione passed him by, followed by Ron and a victorious Harry clutching his golden egg and broomstick.

Not knowing who he could talk to, what he would talk about, or even whether he wanted to talk at all, he went to the only one in his life guaranteed to give him nothing more than company.

Beyond the enclosure where the champions had faced their challenge were the pens holding the dragons. Several handlers and a very work-oriented Vipertooth were herding Agnes into her own pen, where they had already placed her eggs.

Watching them work, Chey wondered what on earth Fleur could have against this job. Here he got to be around the most incredible creatures in the world, working with the most dedicated colleagues who would never let ambition get in the way of the job.

And there, in the middle of it all backing slowly away from Agnes was his favorite part of the job, the small copper colored dragon he had affectionately named Vipey. The dragon who had been with him since he'd first seen him as a hatchling in a cast iron cage at a back alley magical creatures shop so soon after receiving his Class Echo Dragon Handler's license.

With Agnes safely secured, Chey whistled for Vipey to come, and the dragon obeyed. Vipey gave Chey a few sniffs, then a lick on the cheek with his rough forked tongue.

"That's a good boy," Chey said, scratching him under the chin and stroking his head. "I got someone who'd love to meet you."

Vipey growled approvingly. Chey knew that the dragon was only reacting to the tone of his voice, but so often it felt like Vipey really understood what Chey was saying.

"You know, I think I'll have Chuck come back later to pick you up. There's plenty of space here for you to stay a couple days. And even better, a big lake you can go fishing in. Yeah, that's right. You saw the lake earlier, didn't you? Yep, and maybe, if I pull some strings, I can get Mayla over here, too. Yeah, the two of you really give dragons a good name, don't you?"

"Marvelous beasts, dragons," came Hagrid's voice. Chey turned around and saw him standing behind with a twinkle in his eye. This reminded Chey of a promise he had made.

"What do you say, Shaggy? Want to borrow one for some lessons?"

Hagrid looked like a kid on Christmas morning who saw the shiny bicycle underneath the tree. Chey took that to mean "Yes."

"All right, then. I'll have two of them here starting Monday." Hagrid moved closer to admire the greater beasts in their cages and seemed to busy to answer. Chey could hardly blame him.

Suddenly, Barty Crouch entered the pen area, followed quickly by another man who Chey vaguely recognized. Both had their wands drawn.

"Restrain that beast!" Crouch shouted with such fury.

"We already did." Charlie answered, voicing the very confusion that Chey was feeling.

"There! That one's still loose!" Crouch exclaimed pointing a shaking finger at Vipey.

Charlie looked back and forth between Vipey and Crouch, then said calmly, "There's no need," and went back to work checking the locks on the cages.

"Young man, that is a Peruvian Vipertooth!" said the man who entered with Crouch, whom Chey now recognized as Cedric's father, Amos. "It's one of the most dangerous breeds in the world! You have to lock it up!"

"He's tame as a mouse," said another handler, coming to Vipey's rescue. "Just ask McGonnagal there."

"What are you talking about?" Crouch asked, though it more of a shout than a question.

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm a Class Echo?" Chey said, frustrated.

"That doesn't explain why this creature is loose!"

"Yes it does, because he's mine."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I'm authorized to take care of a dragon all on my own, you idiot."

"This is unacceptable, young man. Your government will be hearing from me about this, I assure you!" Crouch stormed out in a huff. Chey wasn't worried about a reprimand, though. As much as Forsythe's personal interest in Chey's life bothered him, in this case it may well prove to be an asset.

"Young man," Amos Diggory said to Chey, much calmer than before, "am I to understand you are personally responsible for this dragon?"

"What's it to you?"

"I'm with the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, so dragons in England concern me."

"You Brits can't ever give something a shorter name, can you?" Chey muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

"So you'd want to see this, wouldn't you?" Chey dug into his pocket and pulled out the silver badge given to him by Forsythe when he had passed his examination. It was in the shape of a shield bearing the engraved profile of a dragon head with the word "Echo" etched in script letters below. On the back was engraved the Department of Sorcery seal, a circle in which an eagle clutched a wand and a dagger in its talons, with "Department of Sorcery, United States of America" written just inside the edge of the circle. "If you need to verify it, I was certified by Warren Forsythe."

Mister Diggory took the badge and examined it.

"And this permits you to keep a dragon as a pet?" he asked.

"The rules never explicitly say 'pet,' but we all know that's what they were thinking when they wrote it."

He chuckled a bit at this and returned Chey's badge. "Well, it all looks fine to me. But still, I can see where Barty's coming from. You did bring a dragon to a school and you failed to inform my department."

"Let me put this in perspective for you: I have essentially smuggled nothing more than a big scaly puppy dog," Chey said, grabbing Vipey by the horn and shaking his head. The dragon only grumbled a bit and licked Chey's face again.

"I can plainly see that, but you must understand that the Ministry of Magic does classify dragons as extremely dangerous. I don't expect this is the last you'll hear from Barty."

"I figured. Oh, while I've got you here..."

"Yes?"

"Could you file the paperwork to have another dragon brought here?"

"You want another dragon on Hogwarts grounds?" Mister Diggory asked incredulously.

"Yeah. You see, the big guy over there," Chey gestured toward Hagrid, who was now deep in conversation with Charlie about the dragons, "he's the Magical Creatures teacher here, and I sorta promised I'd get him one or two to show for his class."

"Oh, well what sort of dragon did you have in mind?"

"We got an old Opaleye at the Romanian reserve. She's real laid back. Matter of fact, she's so laid back she doesn't even chase her own food. I figured she'd be the right kind of temperament for kids."

"Well, I'm not sure we can allow that."

"If it helps, I'll be there for the whole thing."

Mister Diggory was reluctant, but finally said, "Oh, all right I'll look into it. But I will have to speak with this Forsythe fellow you mentioned."

"Better schedule a meeting soon as you can. I bet he's busier now that he became Secretary of Sorcery."

"Are you serious? I thought that name sounded familiar. Right then, I'll get to it soon as I make it back to the office."

"Thanks," Chey said, relieved now that at least one hurdle was cleared. "I'm gonna get this big ole' puppy dog here a steak."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He deserves a reward for handling the Horntail."

"Ah, well you'll get no argument from me." Diggory then tentatively stretched a hand out and patted Vipey on the snout. "That was a very impressive demonstration." Vipey startled him by licking his palm.

The docile and domestic nature of Vipey and the natural beauty of the dragons in the pens behind him made Chey wonder yet again what Fleur had against them.

* * *

Sure enough, the house of Gryffindor once again showed their remarkable proficiency for throwing a party that night in their common room. Cakes and butterbeers were abound, both on tabletops and in the hands of the rambunctiously celebrating Gryffindors, while several banners featuring Harry on his broomstick zipping around the Horntail, and a handful showing Cedric with his hair on fire, were hung on the walls in celebration of Harry's accomplishment.

Chey declined on the butterbeers for his dislike of the taste, and remained wary of the cakes and treats since he had gotten word that Hogwarts's chief troublemakers, Fred and George Weasley, were responsible for supplying them. His fears were confirmed when a fourth-year turned into a giant canary after eating a custard cream.

After the obligatory toasts and pats on the back, Chey retired to the seventh-years' dormitory. Outside the open window next to his bed, he could see the Beauxbatons carriage the ground, its windows lit with a soft orange light. He leaned out over the sill, wondering if Fleur was enjoying herself at the party her classmates had no doubt thrown for her.

Chey had forgotten Vipey's strong attachment to him when he had left the Vipertoooth with Hagrid earlier that day, and was surprised to see his head pop up. Feeling the party was a little too energetic for his liking at the moment, he climbed out of the window and perched himself on its gabled roof. Vipey followed him upwards and lounged behind Chey, placing his scaly head next to where Chey sat. As he had done so many times before, Chey stroked Vipey's head as the dragon grumbled, deeply content.

"I guess you'd be pretty pissed if I got rid of you, huh?," he said to the dragon. "Yeah, no way I'm giving up this job."

"Bloody hell!" someone shouted, and the best Chey could figure was that this person was inside the dormitory. He leaned over the gable's edge and saw Edward staring at Vipey's tail, which was laying on the sloped roof next to the window.

"What's the big deal?" Chey said very matter-of-factly, startling Edward a second time.

"What the hell, McGonnagal? What are you doing up there?"

"Having some peace and quiet. What else?"

Edward seemed to mull it over, then said, "You want a scotch?"

Seeing nothing wrong with the idea, Chey answered "Sure."

Edward dipped into his supply of ten year old scotch disguised in butterbeer bottles and joined Chey on the gabled roof, where they split the contraband with conjured glasses which kept their drinks cool.

"So you tamed this dragon?" Edward asked, surprisingly calm compared to the average person sitting next to a Vipertooth.

"I guess you could say that," Chey answered. "I got him when he was a hatchling. I guess all you need to do to train them is to be the dominate presence in their lives."

"Looks like you're living the dream." Edward took another swig of the scotch and said, "So why are you up here all by yourself?"

"What are you getting at?" Chey answered quickly.

"Just wondering what you're doing here when your girlfriend is down there," Edward said, gesturing to the Beauxbatons carriage parked on the grounds.

"I don't think she wants to see me right now."

"So, it was just hormones that made her kiss you, then?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Everyone saw the two of you snog right after she'd finished with her dragon."

"Dammit, I forgot about that."

"And right before she got on the field. Looks like the Mediator isn't so impartial anymore," Edward mocked Chey. "So why wouldn't she want to see you?"

"For whatever reason she doesn't want me training dragons anymore."

Edward was quiet for a moment, then said, "I think I can understand why she said that."

"She's gottta be crazy," Chey said. "I'm not giving up dragons."

"No, it looked pretty dangerous when you were fighting that Horntail. Thought for sure you'd be killed loads of times when you were out there."

"It's not like I haven't dealt with that one before."

"I'm just saying what I saw. It looked like it was trying to kill you for sure. Maybe that's what she saw, too."

"Everything was under control," Chey said. How could anyone think differently?

"It didn't look that way. Maybe she was scared for you."

"Naw," Chey said, but slowly the idea started to make sense to him. "You think so?"

"Probably. Looked pretty dangerous from where I was."

"Maybe," Chey said. It was strange that it took Edward's perspective to understand Fleur's train of thought. Why hadn't Chey thought of this on his own?

"You think the party's any better down there?" Edward asked, mercifully changing the subject.

"Oh hell yes," Chey answered. "If the French know one thing, it's how to throw a party."

"Shame we couldn't have a few up here, eh?"

"Yeah," Chey said, thinking of Fleur and the way she could dance.

"Next time there's a party, how about you and I invite a few of them up here?"

"Sound's good. Except I don't think they'll go for Scotch."

"I'll talk to my contact about getting some champaign, then."

"That should do it."

They spent the next few minutes in silence, watching the Beauxbatons carriage and listening to the party carry on below them.

"So, about Potter," Edward said finally.

"Yeah?"

"That was a summoning charm he did, wasn't it?"

"Yup."

"Why didn't he just summon the egg?"

"God dammit, that's exactly what I asked him. Sure seemed like the obvious move."

An incredibly loud and harsh wail pierced through the air from the party below. Vipey did not take kindly to the noise, as he accidentally bumped into Edwards glass, spilling half its contents.

"What the hell was that?" Edward said in a startled shock, though not startled enough to keep him from refilling his drink.

"Sounds like Specks opened the egg."

"What's inside it?"

"Just the noise. It's part of the clue they're supposed to work out."

"What's it mean?"

"Dunno. That's as much as they told me."

Edward took a long swig before saying, "Is it me, or did they all look like they knew what they were doing?"

"You don't handle a dragon without knowing what you're doing."

"No, I mean it looked like they all had a plan."

"That's because they all knew it was dragons."

"Thought they weren't supposed to know."

"Since when does that stop anyone from finding stuff out?"

"So who told them?"

"Who knows," Chey said, though he thought about it a little more. "But Moody..."

"What about him?"

"He found out that Specks knew, but he didn't do anything about it."

"That's weird for a teacher here."

"Yeah... Might have to talk to him about that."

* * *

Author's Note.

Last chapter I forgot to thank everyone for sticking with the story despite the delays and writing reviews, so I'll do it here:

Thanks everyone for reading and sending me your feedback!

-Termite.


	54. Chapter 54, A Looming Suspicion

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Four

A Looming Suspicion

* * *

Professor Moody drilled his students seventh-year students extra hard the day after the first task.

This of course was detrimental to the Gryffindors, as most of the seventh-years had indulged in Edward's illegal scotch-whiskey long into the night after the younger students had gone to bed. During the afterparty, Chey became much more popular as they had remembered his impressive display dealing with the Horntail. Edward had even told them that Chey worked with Charlie Weasley in Romania, and many remembered Charlie as the legendary seeker and captain of the Quidditch team, and as the prefect who always told them "Strike one," even if it was the third or fourth time he'd caught them out of bounds in the same evening.

They reveled in Chey's stories of him and Charlie battling with dragons, and for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he felt they finally respected him for his persona, rather than resented him for being talented in class. They were even interested in what magical schools were like in America and weren't judgmental at all when he spoke about his expulsions.

But most importantly, that night he was properly introduced to the rest of the seventh years in Gryffindor House. First, and the most likable of the evening, there were the inseparable best friends Connor Blackston and Lucas Elsey, who had actually made a bet with each other whether Chey would get pummeled by Agnes (Lucas won ten sickles). Then there was the dating couple of Geoffrey Hooper and Dona Gerrity. Also, there was Sophie May and Allison Bakewell, who desperately wanted Chey to introduce them to some of the boys from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Although, the one who definitely stood out was Victoria Frobisher, as she just couldn't seem to tear herself away from Edward. This was odd to Chey, as he hardly ever saw Edward interact with women.

Despite Victoria and Edward's strange behavior, Vipey trying to climb in one of the windows, and a small disaster when Connor, Lucas, Geoffrey and Chey failed to finish building a structurally stable tower of butterbeer bottles to reach the ceiling before its demise, a good time was indeed had by all even as late as four in the morning.

Unfortunately, the side effects of their late night meant their performances in the Defense Against the Dark Arts class were poor, a fact the Slytherins were keen to point out.

"You might be able to fight a mindless dragon, but you're sure rubbish at dueling," said Derrick, the Slytherin who had been on Chey's case since the first confrontation on the grounds near the Charger involving Peeves's can of pink paint.

"I'd like to see him go head to head with a Hebridian when he's got a hangover," Chey grumbled to Edward as they packed up at the end of the lesson.

"You've done that?" Edward asked, rubbing his bruised shoulder.

"Not exactly," Chey answered. "I had some help from Vipey."

"I'd keep that to myself if I were you."

Moody approached from behind them. With his distinctive limp he hardly startled anyone, but it was still unsettling.

"Move along, you two," he growled. "The class bell doesn't wait for anyone." Moody limped back to the front of the classroom where his desk stood.

"You go ahead," Chey said to Edward, remembering part of their conversation from the night before. "I gotta talk to Professor Paranoid about something."

"If you're about to ask for more homework, leave me out of it."

When all the other students had left the classroom, Chey approached Moody's desk. The scarred auror looked at Chey with both eyes, then looked down at his papers, even though Chey thought he'd seen that magical eye hadn't averted its gaze.

"Budge along, McGonnagal."

"Why didn't you stop the first task?"

"I have a class full of twelve-year old nitwits about to come in here, boy. Now move along."

"No. You knew the dragons weren't a secret anymore, and you didn't do anything about it."

Moody continued to keep his real eye on the papers on the desk, though Chey was sure his magical eye was staring up at him even though he couldn't see it. "That doesn't concern you. Get out."

Chey slammed his hand on the desk, finally getting the auror's undivided attention. Moody looked straight at Chey with both his eyes once more.

"Stop interfering with the Tournament!"

"That aunt of your's ever tell you to respect your teachers, sonny?"

"You and I both know I'm not just a student here."

The class of second-years began to stream into the classroom, and Chey knew he couldn't say too much about the Tournament in front of them.

"Get out," Moody growled. His face had the very slightest hint of a sneer behind those scars.

Chey had nothing else to say to the man, so he merely stormed out of the room, almost knocking down some of the second-years.

* * *

"I've got news for you, mate: you are just a student."

On the following Friday, Charlie returned to Hogwarts with Mayla, the Romanian reservation's aging Opaleye. As he and Chey prepared her for a stay at Hogwarts next to the makeshift paddock where Maxime's winged horses stayed (Chey thought it better to keep her with creatures with which she was already familiar), Charlie had patiently listened to Chey's recounting of his confrontation with Moody after hearing about his theory that somehow the retired auror wanted to skew the Tournament results.

"He's being evasive," Chey said. "Classic sign of guilt."

"Or he's paranoid," Charlie countered. "They say he's been like that for years."

"No one gets paranoid for nothing. What do you know about him?"

"Not much, just what I heard from my dad. Mad-Eye spent years fighting dark wizards, then retired. Of course, no matter how well you do the job it's an efficient way to make some enemies. So now he puts booby traps all around his house."

"I don't buy it," Chey said, tossing a slab of raw pork to Mayla once she looked settled. "A guy spends a lifetime doing government work and making enemies has to be in some kind of protection program."

"Not if he's paranoid enough. Make enough enemies and you start to think everyone's out to get you, even the ones trying to help."

"So you think he's messing with the Tournament because he's crazy?"

"I don't know why he's doing it. Although..."

"What is it?"

"You said he found out that Harry knew about the dragons?"

"Yeah, right after Specks told Cedric, Moody took him to his office, and I heard him say cheating is all part of the tournament and..." Chey stopped and remembered more of Moody's private talk with Harry. "And that Maxime and Karkaroff wouldn't be as high-minded as Dumbledore..."

"You think he's trying to give Hogwarts an edge?" Charlie suggested thoughtfully.

"If he was doing that, wouldn't he talk to Cedric, too? Wouldn't be hard, just bring Cedric along with Specks and talk to them both at the same time, right?"

"Feels like I'm back in school, gossiping about other people's secrets," Charlie said. "Here's what I think: Moody's an auror, so his instinct is to think dark wizards are behind everything. If he only spoke to Harry, maybe he thinks some dark wizard entered his name in the Goblet, and he's protecting him."

Chey felt Charlie's hypothesis was just too cut-and-dry, but he could tell that Charlie was done discussing the matter.

"So, that French girl you're seeing," Charlie deftly changed the subject. "Is she looking forward to seeing Mayla again?"

"Didn't get a chance to tell her the old girl was coming."

"Don't tell me you haven't spoken to her at all in three days," Charlie asked rhetorically. When Chey remained silent, his tone became more disapproving. "All right, then. What did you do?"

"Why do you assume it's my fault?"

"A wise old man who'd been married a long time once told me it's always the man's fault."

"You know that's a lot less funny to someone who actually has a problem with his girlfriend, right?"

"You used to love that joke. What happened?"

"She wants me to stop keeping dragons."

"Rubbish. You're never giving that up."

"I don't think it's about giving up dragons," Chey said. "I'm thinking it's all about finding that perfect balance between her wants and the things I love to do."

"That was rather eloquent of you."

"Only problem is I don't know how to do that."

"Almost had a perfect plan there. Good luck next time."

"I mean it, Chuck. How am I supposed to tell her that I'm not about to give up taking care of dragons?"

Charlie sighed heavily as he stroked Mayla's back. "Listen, Chey, because this is my last piece of advise: you're getting ahead of yourself. Instead of worrying about what you're going to say, go ask her why she wants you to quit."

"C'mon, Chuck. When has talking ever solved anything?"

"Loads of times. You just never hear about them because it's never as entertaining."

* * *

That evening at dinner in the Great Hall, Chey braved taking the seat next to Fleur. Just like always, she showed no sign of losing her composure when he sat down.

He loaded some cuts of roast beef onto his plate and watched her out of the corner of his eye. She remained unfazed by his presence. Chey thought she might be waiting for him to speak first.

Thinking of nothing else, he said, "I had Mayla brought over here to stay for a while."

"I saw from the carriage," she said. "I remember her."

"Vipey's still here, too," Chey said. This was going well, considering it was their first conversation since the First Task. "You been to visit him yet?"

"No, Maxime has kept us busy with lessons."

"Well, tomorrow's Saturday. You can say hi to them both then." She said nothing, just continued to avoid his gaze. "You know my job isn't a death sentence, right?"

"Does it have to be you out there?" she said desperately, finally looking him in the eye.

"N-no, not necessarily."

"Then why would you do it?"

"Because it's what I want to do."

She stared at her plate without specifically looking at anything. "I was worried."

"I know. Sometimes I worry, too, especially with that Horntail. But you know, out there I had Vipey, and the rock dragons, and Charlie and the others weren't far away."

"Why couldn't they handle it instead of you?"

"Because Specks was still in there," Chey said, and her eyes widened in recognition. "If I waited, he might have gotten hurt."

"I'm sorry, I'd forgotten."

"Well, with any luck we won't have any more kids next to dragons with raging hormones."

"Right," she forced a laugh. "I'm sorry for being this way, I was just scared for you."

"I don't blame you, but why now?"

"What?"

"You've known about what I do outside of school for a while, why would you have a problem with it now?"

"I don't know," she said, and very distractedly swirled the juice in her goblet. "I suppose it's the first time I've seen you fight a dragon. All the other times were just with Vipey or Mayla."

"What? No, you saw me deal with Agnes before, right? Around Christmas last year?"

"No, you told me to stay with Vipey."

"Oh, right. That was the day she killed MacElroy. So I guess you haven't seen me fight one for real until the other day."

"No," she said. Then she finally smiled and slid closer to him. "Although I am glad we've been together since before everyone saw you out there."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Everyone's talking about it, Chey," she said sweetly and snuggled up to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

As she leaned against him, he could smell the light hint of perfume she always wore. It was the same scent he had followed through the woods the night after the Quidditch World Cup. She held his hand with both of her's and caressed it gently. Since becoming the Triwizard Mediator, Chey felt he had to be distant from his friends as to appear more impartial, but sitting next to her like this felt like a flashback to last year when they could be with each other without worrying what people thought. It was pleasant, being so closely intimate with her, even for a few moments.

"It's a nice change, you being popular for something other than being expelled six times."

And with her choice words, the feeling had been dampened just a bit.


	55. Chapter 55, Dragon Lessons

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Five

Dragon Lessons

* * *

As promised, Chey was on-hand to help Hagrid with his Care of Magical Creatures class the following week when he would present the dragons. Of course, it wasn't as if Chey had any say in the matter of him being there, as the British Ministry of Magic had mandated that he be present every time a student was anywhere near a dragon. Amos Diggory was sure to remind Chey of this decision, and told him that he'd better keep everything under control in return for his keeping Fudge off of Chey's case as best he could.

Of course, Chey was only too happy to supervise the sessions, especially since the more time spent with Vipey meant less time the Vipertooth would spend trying to escape to find Chey.

The first session was Monday morning and, as luck would have it, was the same fourth-year class Harry was in.

"Gather round, gather round," Hagrid called to them as the fourth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins descended the slope from the castle. Hagrid had made a point to keep the dragons out of sight to keep it a surprise (Mayla hid behind his hut and Vipey stowed himself among the branches of the beech tree next to the lake). Chey, on the other hand, stood where everyone could see him, right next to Hagrid. "Got a special surprise fer all o' yeh," Hagrid said with a mischievous smile.

"Don't tell me those stupid skrewts want to play fetch," said a Slytherin boy in the back of the crowd who, based on his slicked-back blonde hair, pale complexion and perpetual sneer as described by Harry, Ron and Hermione, had to be Draco Malfoy.

"No, but he might," Chey said, and pointed to a spot just behind the boy where Vipey now stood. Malfoy whipped around, saw the dragon growling with his teeth bared, let out a squeal not unlike that of small child visiting a haunted house, and backed away from Vipey as quickly as he could, putting as many of his fellow students between him and the beast.

While he and all the students had they're eyes on Vipey, Chey motioned for Mayla to come out from behind the hut, making her the second dragon to suddenly appear from behind Malfoy.

Though most were frightened by the dragons' appearance, some of the students, mostly Gryffindors, couldn't decided whether to be surprised or laugh at Malfoy's expense.

"First thing you gotta remember about dragons," Chey said to the awestruck students as Vipey slinked in closer to them, "is that ninety-nine percent of them may try to kill you on sight." Vipey slithered up to Hermione and licked her on the cheek. "But on rare occasions, you may find one who just wants to lick your face."

"Dragons? You're mad!" Malfoy screamed at Hagrid. "You're going to kill us all!"

Whether it was Malfoy's tone or his words, Vipey heard him and leapt over the small crowd of students towards Malfoy, stopping just inches short of his face, growling and baring his teeth once more. Malfoy whimpered yet again.

"The important thing to do is stay calm," Chey said, making his way behind Vipey and giving a tug on the tail. Vipey whipped his head around to face Chey and snapped softly. "Down boy."

"But aren't they dangerous?" said one of the students.

"Oh, hell yes," Chey told them. "Absolutely every dragon in the world could easily kill any of us. These two are just a lot less likely to do it."

"They're... tame?" Harry asked as he slowly approached Mayla. The aged Opaleye lowered her head to Harry's eye level.

"As tame as they get. Mayla here is just old, so she doesn't have the energy to cause trouble. She's a prime example of the safest kind of dragon: one bred in captivity that's getting on in years."

"What if you found an old one in the wild?" Hermione asked.

"You treat it with the respect it deserves. See, dragons have a lot of respect for their elders. A bunch of young dragons guarding an older one is as close as you'll get to a family. Mayla here is pretty much the same, only she doesn't have any bodyguards. Now the smaller one over there sniffing everyone is mine."

"What do you mean 'yours'?" asked one of the Slytherins.

"Kind of the same way any of you might say you have a dog."

"It's your ...pet?" asked a very disbelieving Hermione, and Chey couldn't blame her. Vipey was hardly a common golden retriever.

"For lack of a better word, yes. Peruvian Vipertooths are one of the most deadly breeds. They're small, but insanely fast and years ago they'd killed so many people that the International Confederation sent in an extermination squad. But other than the rare person, Peruvians mostly eat goats and cows. The Antipodean Opaleye, on the other hand, has more of a taste for sheep and the occasional kangaroo."

The rest of the lesson passed wonderfully, and Chey actually enjoyed answering all the students' questions, even though they didn't really challenge his knowledge. The other classes that week went equally well. So well, in fact, that for the second half of the week Hagrid had just let Chey run the whole class on his own. Even some of the seventh-years sat in on the sixth-years' class, Cedric included.

"They're really all right, these dragons," Cedric said of the beasts now that he had faced one that wasn't trying to kill him.

The classes had even gone so far as to establish Chey as the de facto Resident Hogwarts Dragon Expert.

None of this stopped Peeves from regularly tormenting Chey, of course. When the poltergeist wasn't stealing Quidditch supplies, he was ripping parts out of the Charger that Chey and Edward had just put back in.

"If I didn't have to send Vipey back to Romania yesterday, we could've posted him as a guard," Chey suggested as he and Edward reattached the fuel pump for the third time.

"If it means the bloody philistine will keep his hands off the crankshaft, I'm all for it. Hand me that three-eighths spanner there."

"Why can't you Brits just call it a wrench like you're supposed to?" Chey said, passing Edward the wrench as requested.

"Why do you Yanks call them apartments when they're all stuck together?" Edward fired right back. This was not the first time they had debated the differences between British and American cultures. "And while we're on the subject, how about you blokes start putting your steering wheels on the right side?"

"Then the shifter would be on the wrong side. Most people are right-handed, so you'd want the dominant hand to change gears."

"Sure, that's fine and all for straight lines, but I'd rather use my right hand for steering. You see, here in England, our roads have corners."

"Shut up, you cheeky bastard."

"Well would you listen to that," Edward said, feigning surprise. "You're even starting to talk like us. Yesterday you even said 'wing mirror.'"

"Holy crap, you're right," Chey worried. Edward was less than sympathetic as he laughed while fastening down the fuel pump mounts. "This has to stop. I need to eat a hot dog, wear a baseball hat and run a quarter-mile drag race as soon as possible."

"Before you know it you'll be looking at Vantages in an Aston Martin dealership," Edward said mockingly. In the reflection of the windshield, Chey could see Minerva approaching them.

"You bite your tongue. My dad only bought American muscle and Italian exotics, and I intend to do the same."

"Chey," Minerva said to him when she'd reached their work area, "has anyone spoken to you about the ball?"

"Ball?" Chey asked, confused until he made the connection. "Oh, didn't you hear? A few well-aimed shots and Peeves gave up those Quaffles lickety-split."

"No, no, the Yule Ball."

"You have a Christmas Quaffle?" Yet another oddity of British magical culture. "You know, back home we just decorate trees and hang lights."

"You're not talking about Quidditch supplies, are you Professor?" Edward hazarded a guess.

"No, Mister Bishop, I am not."

"Then what the hell is a 'Yule Ball?'"

"Chey, did you read any of the information about the Tournament that Professor Dumbledore gave you?"

"That was back in August! I can't be expected to remember something from that long ago."

"The Ball is a traditional part of the Tournament," she said, ignoring his comment, "and since you were appointed as the Mediator, you're bound to participate. You do have your dress robes, don't you?"

"Dress what?"

"Dress robes! You did buy some before the school year, didn't you?"

"I didn't see anything like that on your list of stuff to buy."

"Oh dear. Well, you'll have to fetch some from Gladrags in Hogsmeade soon. And you'll need to find a partner, since the Mediator has always traditionally opened the Ball with the Champions."

"Open how? And you still haven't told me what the hell is a 'Yule Ball?'"

"A dance, Chey! I thought you ought to have figured that out by now!"

"Wait, wha... dance?"

"Yes. The Ball is on Christmas night. Now get some dress robes before then!" Without waiting for his response, which she probably predicted would be overly sarcastic, Minerva turned on her heel and left the makeshift workshop.

"What's wrong?" Edward asked when Chey didn't say anything for several seconds.

"I... don't dance."

"You mean you can't, right?"

"I mean that I don't. Never have in my life."

"You've danced with the French girl, haven't you?"

"No, she's the one who danced at parties. I'd just... enjoy the show."

"So you've never danced in your life?"

"No!"

Edward chose this moment to start smiling insidiously.

"It's not funny!" Chey yelled at him.

"You can't dance at all?"

"What, and you can?"

"No, but I'm not the one who has to go!" Edward howled with laughter.

"Shut up, little man, before I rip that mouth off your face and stick it between your other set of cheeks!" When Edward failed to stop laughing, Chey threw a socket wrench at him, which he unfortunately managed to dodge.

* * *

Edward wasted no time telling the other seventh-year Gryffindors about Chey's problem. Geoffrey, Connor and Lucas all thought it was just as funny as Edward did. But the reactions from the girls, Victoria, Sophie, Dona and Allison, were even worse as they fawned over his plight as if he were a lost puppy dog.

"You can stop making that sound now," Chey told them as they awwed at him yet again.

"What if we helped you, would that be all right?" Sophie suggested.

"There will be no helping!" Chey finally shouted. "This is not a dramatic teen movie and therefore, there will be no helping!"

His outburst silenced them for the evening, and Chey could only hope they would leave it at that. As far as the girls were concerned, they did, but Edward still felt it was his mission to tell the world. This included telling Cedric during their Advanced Charms class.

"He is in a bit of a tight spot, but I don't see what's so funny about it," Cedric said as they practiced firing projectiles of compressed raw magic at targets after Flitwick had gone over the theory for an hour and a half. They always felt free to talk about whatever they liked during these practical sessions, for Flitwick always left them to practice together while he caught up on some reading.

"I should have known you wouldn't find the humor," Edward lamented as he fired off a shot which emitted a sharp pop much like an air rifle. "You're opening the ball as well, since you're one of the champions."

"Have you at least found someone to go with you, Chey?"

Chey said nothing, only fired a shot with a little too much vigor than was necessary and badly scorched the painted target. Flitwick looked up from his book at the sound of the impact. He twirled his wand to repaint the target and went back to his reading.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Edward said. "He's taking his fancy French girlfriend."

"You mean Fleur Delacour?"

"I can't take her," Chey finally spoke.

"Why the bloody hell not?" Edward said. "I know I would if I were in your place."

"I'm the Mediator, you idiot. I have to be impartial."

"Sorry mate," Cedric said, firing a shot which hit dead on, "but your impartiality flew out the window when you snogged her in front of the whole school. Twice, even."

"I hate gossip," Chey grumbled.

"Look, it's just a dance," Cedric said. "There's no contest, it's just a party. And if you're worried about dancing, just let her lead and fake the rest."

Chey never wanted to admit it, but the idea of attending with Fleur at his side was very appealing, and he couldn't imagine going with anyone else. He also reckoned that Fleur would never forgive him if he did ask someone else.

* * *

A few days later, Chey was wrapping up an essay for Moody in the common room when Sophie and Allison approached him.

"Would you happen to know if there are any empty classrooms that are free for students to use?" Sophie asked.

It seemed innocent enough of a request.

"I know of one," he said, thinking of the three adjacent rooms which Minerva wanted him to transfigure into a single one without the use of his wand.

"Could you show us?"

He obliged, and took them to the empty room on the fourth floor down the hall from Minerva's classroom.

"There ya go," he said when they arrived. "Although, you can't use it Monday afternoons. My aunt has me working on stuff in here then."

"What do you think?" Sophie asked Allison as they both looked around the room.

"I think it's perfect," Allison answered.

"Brilliant," came Victoria's voice. Chey turned around and saw her heave an old record player and a folder full of vinyls into the room and shut the door behind her.


	56. Chapter 56, TwoStep

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Six

Two-Step

* * *

"Where the hell did you get a record player from?" Chey asked the girls, who were now giving each other very knowing looks.

"Muggle Studies classroom," Victoria said. "Professor Burbage doesn't need it for lessons anymore this year, and she's already got another one in her office."

"Most likely they'll start with a waltz," Sophie said. "There should be one in the stack, Victoria."

"Here, you look for it and I'll set this up."

"Enjoy the room," Chey said, headed for the door. "I'll need you out of here Monday morning."

"Oh no you don't," Allison snapped, locking the door with her wand before Chey could even get a hand on the doorknob. "We can't have our student leaving."

"What are you talking about?"

"Dancing lessons," she said as if he was already supposed to know. Of course, he didn't know, and this made him suspicious.

"This has Ed written all over it," he said, remembering Edward was still enjoying Chey's predicament.

"No, it's all our idea," Sophie said as she searched through the stack of records and Victoria set up the player on a desk. "And Dona's, but right now she has to finish a Herbology essay. Found the waltz!"

"Brilliant," Allison said, then turned to Chey. "Now, do you know anything about waltzes?"

Chey didn't answer. His brain was still processing the words "dancing lessons."

"Well, I've seen blanker stares. Come here."

The entire experience was horrid, and no matter how many times they explained the steps he couldn't wrap his head around them. After two hours, Chey finally felt he had to speak up.

"You know, Cedric told me I should just let the girl lead and fake it the rest of the way."

"NO!" the three girls shouted in sharp unison, causing Chey's heart to miss a beat.

"It's more proper for the gentleman to lead!" Sophie exclaimed.

"Not when he's got two and a half left feet, I bet."

"It's late," Allison sighed, "but we're not giving up. Come back here the same time tomorrow night. If you don't, we will find you."

The lesson was the most humiliating event Chey had ever lived through, but the one saving grace was that no one was around to see it.

The chances of having no witnesses the second time were nil, as when Chey begrudgingly arrived at the empty room he found Geoffrey already there, wearing the same defeated expression Chey had the previous day.

"What are you doing here?" Chey asked him.

"Same as you, I expect," Geoffrey answered bitterly.

Indeed, Dona had roped Geoffrey into the lessons as well, her rationale being that she didn't want to be embarrassed by his lack of dancing technique.

As it happened, Geoffrey was much better at figuring out the steps to the waltz than Chey, not that he had decided it was anything to be proud of.

After a few sessions, Connor and Lucas stumbled upon the informal lessons, and were so pleased to find something which incriminated on another's masculinity. The minute Sophie suggested the two of them take lessons they probably needed, Chey, figuring misery loved company, rather cleverly roped them into it by threatening to hang them by their ankles from the Astronomy Tower. For even as long as two weeks, none of the boys thought to make a break for the door.

Eventually, the girls decided Chey wasn't going to make any progress on the waltz anytime soon, so they Victoria declared that she would work with him on the much more basic items while the others progressed.

"Why are you girls doing this, exactly?" Chey finally asked her as they went over the basic box step, the only step Chey had managed to grasp. They stood close together, hand in hand just as Chey was destined to be with whoever he'd be taking to the Ball.

"Oh, I don't know," she said. "Seemed like the thing to do when we heard about the Ball. And really, everyone should know how to dance."

"So it's just a crusade, then?"

"I suppose. By the way, you really ought to stop teasing Edward about his not knowing how to dance. Glass house, and all."

"You got that backwards," Chey said, thrown by what she said and now out of rhythm yet again. "He's the one who's been making my life a living hell."

"If that was true, why did he come to me and ask for private lessons?"

"He what?" This didn't sound like Edward at all. He was more the type to avoid something as embarrassing as dancing lessons if he had the chance.

"He did," Victoria said as if stating an absolute fact set in stone. "He said he was tired of you taunting him and wanted to learn. And it looks like he'll be having the last laugh, because he's making better progress than you are."

"Who isn't?" Chey asked rhetorically.

"Stop," she said. "Now you're just walking in place. Let's go over it again."

Chey resolved to confront Edward with this newfound information as soon as possible.

Victoria, however, made him stay for their lesson much later than the others, and as such they were last to leave the unused classroom, and it was after almost everyone had already been to the Great Hall for dinner.

"Seriously, aren't you hungry?" he asked her as they left the room.

"I had a late lunch, so I'm not bothered," she said. She turned towards the stairs to head back to the common room. "Same time tomorrow night."

"Yeah, yeah," he answered and headed for the Great Hall. He walked twenty feet before his brain registered Fleur standing in the middle of the hallway. As such, it seemed like she'd suddenly appeared out of nowhere in front of him and it gave him quite a start. His involuntary shout echoed through the hallway, catching the attention of all the nearby portraits.

"What's tomorrow night?" she asked, as well composed as ever. She didn't look bothered by anything, but he could just barely tell there was something wrong.

"Oh, hi! What, uh, what are you doing up here?"

"Who was she?"

"Oh, shit. You think-"

She tilted her head back slightly, waiting for an answer.

"She's helping me with something," was all he could come up with, but as soon as he'd said it he knew how feeble it sounded.

"Is that how they say it in America?"

"Oh, I'm just gonna end up saying all the wrong things today. Listen, it's not what you think."

"You avoid me at mealtimes, you're distant when we do talk, and now I finally see who you're with all the time. What am I supposed to think?"

"I swear, whatever it looks like, it's way less dramatic."

"Prove it to me."

It never occurred to Chey to tell her it was dancing lessons, possibly because whatever was left of his pride completely blocked it from his mind. Instead, he only stammered, "I... she's just... we..."

She lowered her head in disappointment and turned away. Chey panicked, and scrambled for at least something to say. It occurred to him that this might be the final straw for her. Thanks to her Veela heritage, it'd probably take her no time at all to find another shoulder upon whom she could rest her head, and that poor soul would be powerless against her Veela charm. That guy would take her to the Ball, and they'd both have a great time because she'd get all the attention and he'd be too dim-witted to realize he was just another piece of arm candy, and Chey would end up looking like an absolute idiot dancing very badly by himself during that first song...

"Go to the dance with me."

She paused, then turned again to face him.

"What did you say?"

"I want to go to the Ball with you."

"What happened to you 'remaining impartial?'"

"It's just a party, isn't it?"

"You really mean it, don't you?" she stared at him, aghast at his transformation.

"Well... yeah," he said, and for once he really felt it, too. "And, well, I'm not crazy about the idea of you going with someone else." She smiled at last. "Plus, I feel it's my civic duty to protect the other guys from that charm of yours since, you know, they wouldn't stand a chance. I mean, I already catch them checking you out behind your back, even though I told them I'd drown them in the lake if they didn't stop-"

She rushed forward and embraced him, laughing.

"Is that a 'no?'" he said, finally finding his sense of humor again. She laughed again and held him tighter.

"You already know I couldn't bear to see someone else dance with you," she said. It was kind of possessive, but sweet nonetheless.

"Well, that's lucky, 'cause I couldn't think of anyone else to go with. And no one looks good dancing alone."

"You're actually going to dance?" she asked, perplexed.

"You sound surprised. Why?"

"It's just... I'm not sure I've ever seen you dance."

"I'm probably really bad at it," he said, trying to sound light-hearted. "Fair warning."

"How can you not know?" Chey was tight-lipped on that matter, but she figured it out anyway. "Are you trying to say you've never danced?" Somehow, she was able to interpret a "yes" out of his silence. "Well, it'll be something we can share: your first time dancing."

"Yeah," he said, still holding her. He silently vowed to himself that he wouldn't tell her about the lessons with the Gryffindor girls. After all, it's not like they helped him any, so it was more than likely it wouldn't matter if he stopped taking them. Cedric's advice of just faking it never seemed as sensible as in this moment. "You hungry?"

"Sure," she said, and they turned towards the Great Hall, exactly where Chey was headed in the first place. He was decidedly happier now than he was when he first started his walk down the hall, though he was still resolved to confront Edward about his hypocritical behavior regarding the dancing lessons.

* * *

Chey's late dinner with Fleur felt like the best he'd had in quite some time, mostly because he just didn't care that everyone saw them together. They'd know soon enough that they were going to the Ball together, so what was the point in hiding it?

After Fleur had updated Chey on her mother's latest letter, which had expressed deep concern that she had to face dragons, she told him about the dress robes she had waiting for the Ball. This, of course, reminded Chey that he still hadn't bought his dress robes, and asked if she could help him find some in Hogsmeade next Saturday.

"I don't even know what I'm supposed to look for," he explained.

"Are you allowed outside the grounds?" she asked, expressing her concern for Chey's now record-breaking streak of not bending any rules.

"Yep. Part of my deal with the headmaster here."

"What deal?"

"He wanted me to be Mediator, and I could tell he was desperate to find someone so I milked it for a few perks."

"Such as?" she asked, curious and impressed by his cunning negotiation.

"Well, first off, as you can see, I don't have to wear the Hogwarts uniform. Never really liked the tie, but they did a good job picking out the cloak. Also, I can visit Hogsmeade anytime I want." Then, a detail he had forgotten returned to him. "Come to think of it, I asked for a map to this place, too..."

"I'll ask Madame Maxime if I can go as well."

"And even if she says no, we'll just sneak you out anyway."

"Don't the others get jealous that you don't have to wear the uniform?"

"Funny enough, I don't think anyone's mentioned it. Guess they figured it's just me being rebellious."

Chey returned to the common room after bidding Fleur good-night, and saw Edward reading up for a potions essay on one of the crimson upholstery armchairs. He snagged a stack of parchment from a third-year, asking "Hey, can I borrow this for a sec?" without really waiting for an answer. He rolled up the papers and smacked Edward on the side of the head with them.

"You little hypocrite weasel!" he accosted Edward.

"What's your problem?" Chey smacked him with the papers again, and the third-year rushed over to take his homework back before Chey could wrinkle it further.

"You give me grief about the Ball and you're right there, same as me, taking lessons!"

"What? I'm not taking any bloody lessons!"

"Victoria told me you asked her!"

"She's lying," he said casually, going back to his potions book.

"Why would she lie about it? She even said you're making progress."

"Better than you?" he asked coyly.

"Why would that make a difference?"

"There's your reason for lying: she's trying to make you jealous to motivate you."

Yet again, Edward was the voice of reason. "Dammit. And I almost fell for it, too."

"Let it go, mate. Women have been lying to us for centuries. It's just who they are. Although, you do realize I still have to grief you about the lessons."

"Shut your mouth. I'm giving them up anyways."

"No hope for a lost cause, then."

Chey took the third-year's homework again and gave Edward another swat.

* * *

Author's note.

As you can see, Chey's taking a short break from thinking about the mysteries and conspiracies. Just regular old angsty school life right now, and that's certainly an important aspect to show in order to flesh out the story. Looking back, though, I wish I had introduced the other seventh-years earlier than this. Oh well.

Yes, I'm still writing. It's just that I'm going a little slower now that I've started working.

Happy Holidays to all, and thanks so much for all your feedback!

-Termite.


	57. Chapter 57, Wardrobe

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Wardrobe

* * *

Fleur reported to Chey that she had gotten permission from Madame Maxime to go to the village of Hogsmeade that Saturday, though not for the reason they were going.

"I told her it was for working out the egg clue," she told him at breakfast the morning of their trip.

"What'd you tell her that for?" Chey asked between bites of bacon, his favorite breakfast item in the world ever since going without it for an entire year while at Beauxbatons.

"She still doesn't like you very much," she answered, herself having a more sensible breakfast of nothing more than toast and tea. She hadn't really been enjoying the abundance of heavy English cuisine.

"Figures. I get perfect grades and never get caught breaking any rules when I'm at her school, but I lie on one application and that's the thing she hangs onto."

"Wouldn't you?"

"Probably," he said. It was hard to deny that negative aspects tend to stand out. "So, what happens when she sees the both of us headed out together?"

"I don't care. But she'll most likely think I'm trying to pry you for clues."

"As if I could actually be bought," he scoffed.

"Yes, you could."

"Yeah, you're probably right," he admitted again. "You no doubt have ways of making me talk."

"Relax. I already know you don't know anything."

"What gave you that idea?"

"When you have to keep secrets from people, you get suspicious when they try to speak to you."

"C'mon, I can't be that-"

"Easy to read? Yes you are."

"I'll have to work on that."

After they had finished, they'd left the Great Hall walking hand in hand without caring. Their closeness attracted some stares, but not enough to make them uncomfortable.

In the entrance hall, they ran into Edward, who was carrying some tools for fixing the Charger, which meant he still thought they were working on it today.

"Ready to start?" Edward asked, not taking the hint having seen both Chey and Fleur wearing their heavy winter coats to brace against the December air. "I saw it earlier, and it looks like Peeves has been into the throttle body and gearbox linkage."

"Um, I actually can't work on it today," Chey said, trying to sound like he wasn't blowing Edward off entirely. "Gotta go into town and pick up a few things."

"You're allowed to go to Hogsmeade anytime?"

"Yeah. Mediator privilege."

"That's rubbish. I would have asked for immunity from anything that might get me a detention. Doesn't matter. It's nothing too complicated, so I can do it myself."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. And I'll only charge you thirty galleons for it."

Chey knew he was just being snarky, but sometimes it seemed like Edward really meant it when he mentioned payment.

The Hogwarts grounds received a light dusting of snow overnight, which swirled around their feet as they walked down the path to the gate flanked by winged boars.

"There's all kinds of animals out there," Chey said when he saw the statues. "Why'd they think wild pigs were a good mascot?"

"They're English," Fleur answered, glancing up at the gate's stoic guardians.

"Good point. They're just weirdos to begin with."

"What would you suggest?"

"It's a magical school. I can't think of anything other than a huge dragon ready to bite people's heads off. And the gate statues would be just that: dragons stomping on knights in armor and the fire they shoot in the air would be the torches."

"Have you put a lot of thought into this?"

"No, it just came to me."

"Gabrielle misses you, of course," Fleur said after they had left the gate behind, following the road to Hogsmeade.

"How is she?"

"She is fine. Though I think she misses Mayla most."

"If we're not careful, she might end up a dragon handler like me."

"You think she shouldn't?"

"Nah, she's too pretty for it.

"What would you have her do?"

"It's not my place," Chey said, knowing better.

"Just imagine," she pressed.

"Nothing to do with dragons, I can tell you that. Too dangerous."

"And what makes you think it's okay for you to do it?"

"Because I'm just dumb enough to volunteer for it," he smiled. "Some might say I didn't have a good example in my life to teach me how to make responsible decisions."

"You seem responsible enough to me."

"That's just because I'm not twelve years old anymore."

"Actually, I would say you're not sixteen anymore."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said, a little affronted by how quickly she came up with that age.

"You were still quite a terror when we first met."

"I was not!"

"You were!" she taunted him. "Remember when you cast that thick fog in the girls' dormitory that wouldn't go away for a week?"

"Aw, don't tell me you didn't think it was funny."

"And the very day you received your new Firebolt, the first thing you did was sneak up behind me at full speed."

"I was just having some fun. What's your point?"

"My point is that you've gotten a lot better. And of course, I can't help but take some credit for that."

Now she was just being ridiculous. "Okay, very funny."

"I mean it. But go on, what's your excuse for growing up?"

She had a point, though. There had been a serious decline in what some might call "loutish behavior" since they had been together. In fact, the most outlandish thing he'd done was to arrive at Hogwarts in a vintage Charger, and that was nothing compared to the dragon last year.

Failing to come up with a better answer, he finally said, "Okay, I guess if anyone was gonna straighten me out, it had to be you."

The village of Hogsmeade was busier than Chey would have guessed. Even without the addition of hundreds of Hogwarts students to crowd the streets, there were still plenty of witches and wizards meandering about the shops. This included the very unpleasant Rita Skeeter, who was conversing with her photographer on the other side of the high road.

"That woman hasn't been run out of town yet?" Chey wondered aloud.

"She's not worth our time," Fleur said in English, possibly in the hopes the reporter would hear her.

Whether they were heard or not, Rita Skeeter noticed them. She pointed them out to her photographer, who started scrambling to get his camera ready. Chey made a point of raising his middle finger as the shutter clicked. It seemed to be enough to keep the two of them at bay for the time being as Chey and Fleur were not followed.

At last they reached Gladrags Wizardware, a small shop not unlike Madam Malkins in Diagon Alley, where Chey had bought a few of the traditional Hogwarts black robes, discarding, of course, the prep-school-like shirts, ties and pants and opting instead to wear more comfortable street clothes. Save for a space for alterations and a few dressing rooms, the place was packed with racks of wizard robes, leaving very little room to navigate. The narrow aisles reminded Chey of the small English country roads, and the great difficulty he'd had navigating them in the Charger with the complication of oncoming traffic.

As they entered, a short elderly witch with knobbly fingers and thick reading glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose shuffled through the avenues of clothing racks to meet them. Her footsteps sounded odd as she walked, as if she had a second pair of very different feet.

"Good morning," she said to them, and only when she was clear of the racks did Chey see what caused the strange sound: a step stool with its own pair of legs following her around like an obedient dog. "I'm Mrs. Glover. Is there anything I can help you with today?"

"Uh, yeah," Chey said. "My aunt said I need dress robes."

"Ah, you're Minerva's nephew, aren't you?," Mrs. Glover said.

"Why does everyone already know this before I've met them?"

"She sent me an owl the other day. Come this way and we'll get you fitted right up."

She trotted back through the aisles of robes, and Chey and Fleur supposed they were meant to follow her. They did so, and after walking through the aisles a bit they came to a section with dress robes. Straight away, Chey did not care for the selection. He may not know what to look for or what he wanted, but he definitely knew that yellow robes with violet ruffles would make him the laughing stock of the school.

"People actually wear these?" he asked the little shopkeeper.

"Of course," she answered.

"...In public?"

"Être poli, cheri," Fleur snapped at him.

"Yes, you silly boy! Now pipe down and let me find something in your size."

Chey bit his tongue and stayed put, cringing every time she neared another garish garment. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Fleur's haughty sneers at the robes as she tried her best not to touch them.

Not being able to think of anything polite to say about the merchandise, he asked Fleur, "Uh, see anything good?"

"These English fashions are as overdone as their food," she whispered in French so Mrs. Glover wouldn't hear.

"And you were saying that _I_ needed to be polite?" he whispered back.

"Here we are," the shopkeeper said, producing a bright red robe with gold embroidery. It wasn't as horrible as the mustard-yellow one next to it, so Chey actually gave it a second glance. "Your aunt said you were in her house, so this should do nicely."

Fleur strode to Mrs. Glover's side to get a better look at the garment.

"I might be able to live with that," he said.

"Revoir, Chey," Fleur said showing him the back of the robe, the whole of which was covered in a gold-embroidered lion.

"Maybe something less brash," he said to the shopkeeper, Fleur nodding in agreement.

"If you say so," said the little shopkeeper. She moved over to a higher rack, and the wandering step stool planted itself in front of her to give her a leg up. She pulled down a depressing set of all-black robes that looked like something the old men managing his father's estate would wear. "What about these?"

"Do I look like a mortician? Because I'm pretty sure that's what they wear to work."

"Well, if you're going to be smart about it," she said, and swapped the undertaker's uniform for a set of powder blue robes that reminded him of Beauxbatons.

After an exchanged glance, he and Fleur said in unison, "No."

With a sigh, Mrs. Glover went again to the rack and pulled down a set of burgundy robes with puffed shoulders. Her doing so revealed a far more interesting set that caught Chey's eye. It wasn't because it was garish, but rather it was because the seemed to be changing color as it swung slowly on its hangar after Mrs. Glover brushed past it. At its darkest, it was a deep, darker-than-navy blue, and with a sort of iridescence it would shift to a lighter cobalt. Gray piping edged the collar, lapels and hems while glossy black buttons glistened in the shop's lamp light.

"Hang on a sec," he said, and Mrs. Glover stopped.

"This one?" she asked, indicating the puffy-shouldered one she was holding.

"'Onestly, Chey..." Fleur began to admonish him.

"No, no, the one behind it. That blue one with the gray edges."

"Honestly, young man," said the shopkeeper, "that one is hardly meant for a Christmas celebration. It's far too simplistic!"

"Well, complicated doesn't seem to be doing it for me, so why not look in the other direction?"

"Let us 'ave a look," Fleur said.

Mrs. Glover produced the robes that Chey indicated and Fleur took hold of them. She held them in front of Chey at the neck to see how they would look on him.

"Tres chouette," Fleur said.

"You think we have a winner?" Chey asked. Fleur's smile was all he needed for confirmation.


	58. Chapter 58, Details Overheard

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Details Overheard

* * *

Despite Fleur's insistence that it had been no trouble, Chey still felt obligated to treat her to a few things from the local shops. After that was done and she had her sweets (and a few make-up products that Chey was almost embarrassed to be seen purchasing), they made their way back to the castle with the plan of returning in time for lunch. Chey only asked that they deposit their wares in their dormitories before going to the Great Hall.

Upon reaching the grounds they stopped at the Beauxbatons carriage so Fleur could drop off her wares. Fearing Madame Maxime might be inside, Chey waited outside, hiding just around the corner on the odd chance Maxime would walk out while he waited. Fleur's new purchases safely stowed, they decided to catch up with Edward in the Charger's makeshift garage.

"Weren't those bits in the engine bay when I left last night?" Chey asked Edward on seeing the carburetor and distributor cap on the ground.

"They're gone, mate. Peeves has been in them too many times and they need to be very precise to work. We'll need new ones."

"Okay, I'll send word to Lenny."

"While you're at it, tell him a new timing chain would be nice."

"Chey," Fleur said, "why ees zere raw meat in ze corner?"

"An excellent question," Chey answered, and he too was at a loss to explain the steel bucket of raw steak in the corner. "Eddy?"

"Don't call me that."

"Fine, but what's with the meat?"

"Experiment," Edward said, finally acknowledging the pail of beef. "I have a feeling that Peeves is scared of the Thestrals, so I thought I might keep some of their favorite snack nearby."

"You think that'll work?"

"It had better. I'd like to keep this as original as possible."

"That'd be nice. All right, I'll write up a list and send it off. Catch you later, yeah?"

"Sure."

Chey and Fleur climbed the many staircases to the seventh floor where the Fat Lady's portrait resided. While Chey deposited his new dress robes in his dormitory, Fleur waited outside the portrait as dutifully as Chey had down at the carriage.

"This is much larger than Beauxbatons," Fleur remarked as they started down one of the many staircases. "Or maybe it just takes longer to get anywhere?"

"Well, there's supposed to be a bunch of secret passages, but to be honest, I'd rather stick to the way I already know."

"What's wrong with trying a new way?"

"I don't want to spend a whole afternoon lost in this place and winding up God knows where."

Fleur smiled. "Tell me more about these secret passages," she said.

Despite not seeing the point, Chey went along and indulged her. "They're supposed to be all over, behind curtains and fake walls, going between floors. Of course, since no one gave me a map, I have no idea where they are."

"Well then, let's find some." A mischievous smile played on her face and she pulled back a nearby tapestry which depicted a wizard fighting off a fanged hat. She was disappointed to see nothing but a blank wall. Still determined, she moved further down the hall to yet another tapestry.

"Come on, Fleur," Chey pleaded with her. "Do you really want to spend all day lost in this place? There could be hundreds of miles of tunnels in this place. I mean, what do you expect from a place that can't keep its staircases in one place?"

After pulling back a third tapestry, this one featuring a troll trying on ballet shoes, she glanced back at him with a look of triumph, then disappeared behind the tapestry. Frustrated with her bout of adventure-seeking, he followed her into what was surely some convoluted tunnel that would lead to nowhere near where someone wanted to go.

Only it didn't go anywhere beyond five feet. The passageway was actually wider than it was long.

"You've gotta be kidding me. This is it?"

"Always have to stay on your toes here, don't you?" she said.

Chey felt the wall, just to make sure the castle wasn't just messing with them, but it was a real wall, all right. The only strange thing about the space was that, instead of radiating magical residue from centuries of spellcasting in an enchanted castle, the walls seemed to absorb magic. He could feel both his and Fleur's auras being drawn towards the stones. Quite conceivably, someone could hide in this space undetected until someone pulled back the tapestry.

"So this is a secret passage to nowhere?"

"Or a perfect hiding place," Fleur said, pulling the tapestry closed behind them. She, of course, had no idea the strange properties of the space.

"What are you up to?"

"Ever since you came to this school you have been different," she said. "I don't know if it has anything to do with being the Mediator, or if the people here make you nervous, or if you think things have changed between us. But I have to know if we are really okay."

He had to admit she had a point. Things just weren't the same here at Hogwarts. True, he did at one point have to keep a distance from her to remain impartial, but that was when he feared he might let slip about the dragons. Now, of course he had nothing to do with the upcoming task, but he still had to remain unbiased, and as much as he told himself he didn't care what people thought, a part of him still knew that if he looked over his shoulder and saw their sneers, it would bother him.

"Come on, Fleur, nothing's changed," he said. "It's just, this place is different from Beauxbatons. News travels really fast here, and lots of times people jump to their own conclusions."

"And that bothers you?" she asked.

"Of course not!" he lied.

"Honestly?"

"Yeah!" She looked at him with those beautiful blue eyes, and he couldn't lie. Perhaps her Veela blood held some charm on him after all. "Well, maybe a little. I know it shouldn't, but give me a break. I have to live with these people. Doesn't help that they love gossip, plus my aunt is here, and everyone's ready to jump down my throat if it looks like I favor one of the champions-"

"Wait," she interrupted. "Does it matter that your aunt is here?"

"No, just-"

Fleur put her hand up to his face, cradling his cheek. "Chey, I know you. And you never say anything if you don't mean it."

Now that he had said it out loud, he couldn't help thinking the very presence of his aunt in the castle did bother him.

"Does she disapprove of us?" Fleur asked.

"No, not that it would matter. But it would be nice if she's at least give me an opinion on us, then I'd know she actually cared who I was with."

"What do you mean?"

"Everything I do, she has a comment about it. It's always either 'Your grades are looking good' and 'If your parents could see you now,' or 'You'll be disowned if you get expelled one more time' and 'Don't you dare go to Romania to train dragons.' Whether or not she approves, it's still nice to know she's paying attention."

"So it's attention you want?"

"I dunno, I guess."

Fleur smiled again, then began giving him a lot of attention indeed. One could call it a public display of affection if they weren't secluded behind the tapestry. Their hands moved up and down each other's bodies as they kissed and, for that moment at least, to hell with what the rest of the world was doing. This is what being at Beauxbatons had that Hogwarts was missing. Chey thought he heard footsteps and voices outside, but it didn't matter. The two of them couldn't be found anyway.

However, Chey's moment of bliss ended when he heard limping footsteps and a growling voice say the words "Triwizard clues, Professor?"

"Oh, no, Alastor," came Professor Flitwick's voice. "This is just a little something I tossed together for the dragon keepers so we'd know the dragons wouldn't know the difference between the eggs. I've only had this thing tucked away in my classroom, and I thought I ought to place it in my office before the students get too nosey."

"Ay, that be wise," Moody said. "So only champions have the real ones, then."

"Oh, yes, and if I do say so myself, they're quite clever."

"You made them, did ye?" Moody asked, sounding impressed.

"Yes indeed," said a proud Flitwick. "Dumbledore set me about the deed, saying the Second Task will be in the lake with the merpeople. And it came to me: the merpeople can only speak underwater, so what better than to give the champions a clue that can only be heard when submerged?"

"Ah, very clever Filius. That'll test their reasoning, all right."

Chey was stunned. How could teachers be talking about details of the Tournament so blatantly? What if someone overheard and told a champion? That would constitute cheating, wouldn't it?

Then Chey remembered the beautiful woman standing next to him also happened to be one of the champions.

* * *

"And they were just talking about it in the open."

Professor Dumbledore patiently listened to Chey retell what he overheard in the sixth floor corridor. Chey had gone straight to the headmaster's office as soon as Moody and Flitwick had left the hallway.

"Miss Delacour was with you at the time?"

"Yeah," Chey said, not really game to tell the old man what they were doing.

"And she overheard everything as well?"

"Kind of a hard conversation to miss."

"Yes, I understand. Where is she now?"

"I asked her to wait just outside." The thought occurred to him that this might place her in trouble, so he quickly asked, "Why?"

"The matter does concern her, and I think she should be included in our conversation." Dumbledore stood from his seat and crossed the room to open the door. "Miss Delacour, if you wouldn't mind joining us inside?"

Fleur dutifully entered the office, clearly doing her best not to look worried about what discipline may befall her. Quite understandable, for at Beauxbatons, even for the exceptional students, being called into the headmistress's office was never a good sign. Dumbledore returned to behind his desk and Fleur stood at Chey's side opposite the headmaster.

"Now, Miss Delacour, I ask that you please be honest with me," Dumbledore said. "Did you hear what was said between Professor Flitwick and Professor Moody?"

Fleur glanced at Chey quickly, as if looking for guidance. He nodded, and she answered, "Yes."

"And did you gather information about the Triwiard clue from their discussion that you had not yet gathered on your own?"

"Yes," she answered after another hesitation. Dumbledore kept up his calm smile but remained passive.

"I understand. Now, in your honest opinion, do you think you could have solved the clue on your own without overhearing Professor Flitwick and Professor Moody?"

Fleur looked at Chey again and her eyes pleaded for an answer.

"It's fine, Fleur," he said.

"I never would have thought of placing the egg in water," she said, trying to hide her shame. Dumbledore looked down his glasses at her with a soft smile.

"That's quite all right, Miss Delacour," he said. "The damage is already done and none of this is your fault. You need not worry about it any further. In the meantime, would you mind waiting outside while I speak with Mister McGonagall about a few more things?"

Fleur nodded, no doubt bewildered at the old man's kind disposition, and left the office with a fleeting glance at Chey.

"It'll be fine," he told her. After the door was closed, Chey turned to Dumbledore again. "So what do we do?"

"I don't see that there's anything we need to do," Dumbledore said passively. Chey couldn't believe what he just heard.

"Do you ever pay attention? This is the second time I've seen someone trying to screw with the Tournament!"

"Yes, of course," Dumbledore said patiently. "Professor McGonagall informed me of your confidence in her about the First Task. If I recall correctly, all the champions had learned the secret of the dragons at least a day before the event."

Chey thought back to a few weeks before, remembering how each of them had learned of the dragons. Viktor had no doubt been told by Karkaroff, and Fleur by Maxime. He had no idea how Harry knew, but Harry had definitely told Cedric. Come to think of it, Moody had overheard Harry talking to Cedric that day...

"And your solution is to do nothing now that it's happening again?" Chey asked, bewildered.

"It is a fool who claims to know it all when gains a bit of knowledge, but a shrewd man who waits to act until the grand scheme is revealed. Rest assured, if the champions are ever in any real danger, I will intervene immediately. In the meantime, I believe it is better to let these events transpire."

"'Let them transpire?'" Chey echoed.

"What better way than to learn who seeks to benefit from interfering with the Tournament?"

"Sounds like you're playing chicken with a freight train, old man," Chey said.

Dumbledore smiled again.

"The element of danger is the oldest tradition in this tournament, and cheating is a close second. Right now, all this seems to be nothing more than a stubborn Tournament tradition popping up. Until we know otherwise, it's best not to make any wild or serious accusations."

Chey knew in his gut it was more than cheating. It was twice that Moody had been involved somehow. Chey would have liked to press his point further, but something in Dumbledore's stare told him the debate was over. It was infuriating how the old man could steer a conversations like that.

"Now, while I have you here," Dumbledore said, "how are you enjoying your classes?"

Chey was caught off-guard by the question, so he couldn't think of a reason not to be honest in his answer.

"Well, Charms is good, since it's just three of us," he said. "Aunt Em has me doing this room thing that's impossible and completely pointless, and it seems like I'm teaching Shaggy's classes more than he is right now. They guy's likable enough, but his course plan could use some work."

"And what are your thoughts on Professor Moody?"

"I dunno. I thought I liked him well enough when I first met him back at the World Cup, but he rubs me the wrong way now."

"Thank you, Mister McGonagall. I greatly appreciate your input. Always very productive whenever we have a chat."

Chey knew it was time to go after that remark. There was no use trying to press any further. He nodded and left the office obediently, even though no command was given.


	59. Chapter 59, Internal Combustion

Characters, settings, and story taken from the _Harry Potter_ series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Internal Combustion

* * *

As the days to Christmas dwindled down, the castle grounds received ample quantities of snowfall. It seemed every other day the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students would have to trudge a new path through the snow to reach the castle. It was during these days that Chey was grateful he had the foresight to construct the shelter under which he and Edward could fix the Charger. They had almost gotten it done, too.

"It all looks all right," Edward told him. "But the carburetor is completely gone. I can't fix it without spares, so we'll need a new one. And the coolant hoses are so old they won't keep a seal, so we'll need some new ones of them as well if you want this to last more than a month."

Chey had sent word to Lenny back home, and as long they could keep Peeves away, that would be all they'd need to finish.

British pride was in full force throughout the castle. Christmas decorations splayed the corridor walls from floor to ceiling. Paintings had been scrubbed clean, suits of armor were polished, and the kitchens were churning out some of the best food Chey had eaten in years. The fine food was doubly fortunate as the Weasley Twins had taken to hiding their new inventions, sweets that transformed the eaters into giant canaries, in ordinary baked goods. It hardly took more than two sightings of students spontaneously puffing up in an explosion of yellow feathers for Chey to be weary of anything that didn't come directly from the kitchen.

Edward had explained to Chey that Christmas at Hogwarts wasn't always so gallant. He said the presence of other nations brings out the insatiable need to impress outsiders. This certainly explained why Edward had begun frequently wearing a shirt bearing the Aston Martin logo.

"What's wrong with it?" Edward asked about his new favorite shirt one evening as they climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.

"Nothing," Chey defended. "It's a cool shirt. It's just this is the third day straight you've worn it. Might be time for a wash."

They turned a corner to see Hermione at the Fat Lady's portrait, speaking the password and holding a bundle of books..

"Hey, Whiskers!" Chey called out. "Whatcha got this time?"

She whipped around, nearly dropping a book.

"Oh, just a bit of magical creature law," she said, the stack of books teetering back and forth.

"Please tell me this isn't about your house elf crusade."

"If you must know-"

"I don't, actually," he said. All three of them entered the portrait hole and came upon the common room, where Harry and Ron seemed to be sharing a joke, much to the disapproval of Ron's sister, Ginny.

"Why weren't you two at dinner," Hermione asked the boys.

"Because," Ginny started, then snapped at the Harry and Ron, "oh shut up laughing, you two! Because they've both just been turned down by girls they asked to the ball."

That sobered the boys up. "Thanks a bunch, Ginny," Ron said as he shifted gears to a pouting mood.

"Whose denial could make you so sour, Weasley?" Edward asked.

"He asked Fleur Delacour," Ginny said, smug now that Ron had been put in his place.

"Oh," Chey groaned. Rejection from Fleur always came with a lasting sting. "I'm sorry, Red, I guess I should have said something."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked, his melancholy turning slightly into terror.

"She's going with the Yank," Edward clarified.

"Well, you might have let _me_ know before I made an idiot of myself!" Ron exclaimed.

"In all fairness, Weasley, she's a bit out of your league," Edward told him. "Second, Chey, you really could have told people. Now every bloke in Hogwarts is going to make a fool of himself trying to ask her to the ball."

"Okay, first of all, now that I know there's a mob of people ready to humiliate themselves, I really want to watch that," Chey replied. "Second, I didn't think I had to tell anyone, seeing how gossip is like water through a sieve around here. That aside, Red, I have to ask: Did she at least let you down easy?"

"Well I sort of... ran away right when I said it," Ron said sheepishly.

Chey imagined the scene, saw the humor of the situation and he had a little less sympathy for Ron.

* * *

Christmas morning brought with it an extra helping of snow, but that was the last thing on Chey's mind when he woke up. The fact that it was Christmas and that a dozen or so presents were at the foot of his bed wasn't even first on his mind.. He wasn't even particularly concerned that one of the presents was two cases of Lenny Byrne's homemade lager, a few bottles of which he traded with Edward for a bottle of French champagne and a butterbeer bottle full of single-malt scotch.

No, the number one thing on Chey's mind was another package from Lenny containing a new carburetor assembly and coolant hoses for the Charger. After a rapid unpacking of presents which included a very in-depth book on magical theory from Minerva and a very nice black leather trench coat from Fleur, Chey and Edward headed straight down to the makeshift garage to finish the Charger's repairs.

They were halfway through their work when Fleur stopped by on her way to the Great Hall for lunch. As Chey and Edward hadn't eaten anything yet in their rush to start working, she offered to bring out lunch for them from the Hall. A few moments later and the three of them had a nice lunch amidst a pile of auto parts.

As they finished putting the last pieces together they heard a snowball fight erupt on the grounds.

"Such a foolish game," Fleur lamented, watching the frivolity.

"Come on," Chey said while he tightened a hose clamp. "Have you even been in a snowball fight?"

"I do not see ze point. You call it a fight, but there's no way to win."

"That's not the point, Fleur. It's about the experience. You put together a perfect snowball and hurl it at the other guy as hard as you can. And at the same time he can throw one right back and you don't care, because the snow just comes apart and no one gets hurt so the game goes on forever. And when you're with the right people, you want it to last forever."

Fleur looked at Chey and smiled sweetly. She knew that last bit was about the two of them. Chey smiled back, his hand no longer tightening anything.

"I know what's not going to last forever," Edward said, ruining the mood. "These bloody repairs!" He tossed aside the socket wrench he was using and grabbed the jug of antifreeze. "Come on, Yank. Stop daydreaming and let's fill up the radiator so we can start this beast."

Chey snapped out of his haze and finished tightening the clamps so nothing would leak. He then got behind the wheel and waited for Edward to give him the signal to start the engine. When he got the thumbs-up, Chey depressed the clutch and turned the key.

After a few agonizing seconds as fuel was pumped into the system the engine roared to life like it was fresh from the factory! Chey and Edward were giddy with joy, and even Fleur, who had not been fond of this project as it took time away from her being with Chey, forfeited a wide smile. Edward tugged at the throttle cable and all eight cylinders bellowed in thunderous fury.

It took several months, but Peeves's chaos was finally undone. All that remained was his insidious rhyme scratched on the door, but for the moment a concealing charm would suffice.

"Get in," Chey said over the rumble of the big block. "We gotta open the taps here!" Fleur opened the passenger door and climbed into the back, giving Chey a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Wait!" Edward said as he lowered the hood. "It weighs two tons, it'll never get through the snow!" He cast a quick charm on the tires to keep them from falling through the snow, then hopped in the front passenger seat. "Let her fly!"

With a joy he'd not had since he first met Vipey, he selected first gear, revved the engine and popped the clutch. The tires squealed and the car lurched forward onto the grounds, snow swirling behind them.

To the left, Chey could see the snowball fight had halted for a moment to watch the car. He thought they might like to have a closer look at the completed project, so he turned towards them, and slowed down as he got closer. He could see Harry, Ron, the Weasley twins and several other Gryffindors cheering as the black muscle car drifted by.

Then in a fit of mischief, he steered away from them and floored the throttle. The back of the car spun around and the wheels kicked up a mountain's worth of snow onto the bystanders.

Their cheers turned quickly to cursing, but to Chey it was worth their anger. His father's car was finally fixed, and nothing could bring him down.

The afternoon consisted of Chey and Edward sliding the car around the grounds. They even had a shot at teaching Fleur how to drive.

But the day could not last forever. As the sky began to dim, Fleur insisted they drop her off at the Beauxbatons Carriage so she may get ready for the Ball. They did so, and agreed they should head back to the dormitory to get ready as well.

Chey and Edward joined Connor, Lucas and Geoffrey in the seventh-year dormitory to prepare for the ball when Lucas had an epiphany.

"Gents, what the hell are we doing?" he said, and it gave them all pause. "Are we not seventh-years? We're on the top rung of the ladder here, kings of the court. Why the bloody hell are we going to the ball with the lower riff-raff instead of blowing the roof off with our own party?"

"Because the pretty young thing waiting downstairs for you to take her arm will kill you if you back out now," Connor said.

"If it makes you feel better," Edward suggested, "we could throw our own after-hours soiree tonight."

"Are you joking?" Lucas asked. He seemed very keen to have a night without having any ankle-biters around.

"Sure," Edward replied. "Just like after the first task, only we'll have three schools' worth of party guests, assuming our resident Yankee can extend a favorable invitation to our foreign visitors..." He gave Chey a knowing glance.

"That I can do," Chey said.

"I can supply the drinks," Edward finished. "Then all we'll need is a venue."

"Brilliant!" Geoffrey said. "Hey, how about the Astronomy Tower? Could be pretty romantic with the stars overhead and the snowy landscape..."

"Yeah, you make a good point Geoff," Chey said. "Okay, hands up: who thinks it's a good idea?" Geoff was the only one to raise his hand. "...And hands up everyone who's not completely whipped by his girlfriend?" The remaining four hands shot up.

"Yeah, very funny," Geoffrey retorted. "But I challenge you lot to come up with something better."

"An empty classroom?" Lucas suggested.

"If we're gonna have contraband at this thing, the less accessible to faculty the better," Chey said.

"I would say the dungeons," Connor said, "but I suspect Snape patrols them hourly, even during classes, somehow."

"I'll tell you what," Chey postured, "You guys look around the school, see if there's any place here we can use, and I'll check with our visitors. I got a feeling the Durmstrang ship deck might be available."

The others found the terms agreeable, and they descended the staircase to the common room, where most of their dates were waiting. Chey bid them farewell, telling them he had to pick up his own date in style.


	60. Chapter 60, Party Night

Seriously, you probably know this disclaimer by heart after sixty chapters. Suffice it to say I didn't write the Harry Potter series. This is just my personal twist.

* * *

Chapter Sixty

Party Night

* * *

Fleur knew she was beautiful, but it was still nice to hear it from her classmates. Her silver-gray satin robes gave off a luster much like her aura and let her easily stand out in a crowd. She was most proud of the silver and sapphire earrings she wore. They had belonged to her great-grandmother, and her mother lent them to her for the night.

She was no doubt excited about the evening to come, but her heart fluttered when Jacqueline told her Chey was asking for her at the Beauxbatons carriage door.

After a quick look in the mirror to check her makeup and frantic assurances from her classmates that her hair was perfect she braved opening the door. Outside, she found Chey, regally dressed in the iridescent dark blue dress robes they had selected in Hogsmeade together, standing next to his father's black Charger.

"I heard there's some kind of party going on tonight," he said over the idle rumble of the engine. "You feel like checking it out?"

She said nothing, but he was intrigued by her bemused smile.

"What?"

"Nothing."

He opened the door for her and she slid into the passenger seat. He closed the door behind her then dashed around to get in the driver's seat.

"I guess I should turn on the heater, shouldn't I?" he said after he'd climbed in.

"S'il vous plaît," she said with a bit of laugh and chattering of teeth.

"Sorry, this monkey suit is kind of hot," he apologized as he switched on the heater. Again, she said nothing, electing instead to slide closer to him. "Let's take the long way around, huh?"

They set off around the castle grounds, going almost completely all the way around the castle before reaching the front doors. It was pleasant to take the long route, just the two of them and the rumble of the Charger's exhaust. No one else, just them. Soon, they would have to share the company of a few hundred of their fellow students, but that could wait.

Nevertheless, the moment could not possibly last forever, and they had to go to the ball sooner or later.

He piloted the Charger up the winding drive, passing the occasional stone fountain among many rose bushes, wherein fairy lights winked at them. No doubt either Dumbledore or Minerva had a hand in organizing the rose garden, as the drive was narrow enough to be intimate for the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students walking to the castle on foot, but somehow the Charger's wide berth was easily navigated. Chey was annoyed that they had meddled in his affairs by making this accommodation, but at the same time grateful for the thought. Being torn between feelings annoyed him, so he was pleased when they finally reached the castle doors, and a house elf wearing holly about his ears offered to park the car.

Chey took Fleur's arm and walked with her up the steps to the sounds of the elf trying to feather the clutch delicately, but ultimately just revving the engine too high and dropping the clutch too quick, spinning the tires in an undignified manner.

Inside the foyer was a sea of uncomfortably well-dressed students. Boys tugged at their collars while girls tried not to fall over in their heels. Older students tried to play it off like it was no big deal, younger ones didn't know what to do with their hands, while the ones too young to attend without an older date were wide-eyed with excitement, taking in every detail so they could relay it to their jealous friends. When Chey and Fleur entered, he couldn't help feeling his ego inflate a bit when more than half of the hall began staring at Fleur in awe. He could only imagine how smug he looked when they turned their envious gaze at him.

At the doors to the hall was Minerva, dressed in her red tartan robes that he'd seen her wear years ago at a formal family function. They suited her, to be sure, but the thistle wreath around her hat was a bit much.

"Champions over here, please!" she called. When they had assembled, she positioned them in front of the Great Hall's doors, and they were to wait while everyone else entered the Hall, then they would enter in procession. It seemed to Chey to be a little overly pomp-and-circumstance, but another listen at everyone's accent reminded him he was in England. They live for that crap, he thought to himself.

As he stood next to Fleur, waiting for the rest of the attendants to file into the hall, his eyes wandered around to see who the other champions had chosen as dates. Harry and Cedric had both brought girls whom Chey couldn't name (which was not unusual, as Chey could hardly name any Hogwarts student he didn't speak to daily), though they were very pretty despite not holding a candle to Fleur. Viktor, however, had brought a surprise.

"Whiskers?" Chey said, and a fraction of a second later he saw that she was very dressed up indeed. Her makeup was elegant, her wild hair tamed, and her teeth exceptionally straight and well proportioned. In her robes of periwinkle blue, she stood up straighter than she did under the weight of twenty two-hundred-page books. Chey figured that this far a departure from her standard appearance must have meant her aim was to surprise, and just when he made up his mind to keep his mouth shut, Harry had said "Hermione?"

"Hi, Harry," she said with a breathless disbelief. "Hi Parvati. Hello, Chey."

It was insane how it was Hermione, yet not Hermione. Chey lost count of how many Hogwarts students gaped at her when they realized who she was. Even Fleur, who had seen Hermione on multiple occasions, had nudged Chey, asking "Isn't that the one who almost lives in the library?"

When the entire student body had entered the hall, Minerva instructed the champions to follow her two-by-two through the applauding crowd and up to the faculty table, where extra seats had been added for the champions.

Where the Great Hall's ceiling normally contained a representation of the night sky, tonight it was dominated by snowflakes falling among vines of holly and mistletoe. Along the walls covered in sparkling frost were near a hundred Christmas trees. In place of the four long tables were dozens upon dozens of smaller ones, each with their own intimate lantern.

At the front of the hall, at the faculty table, was Dumbledore, along with the rest of the school staff and the important government officials involved with the Tournament. A clear substitution stood out, however. Seated in place of Barty Crouch was one of Charlie's brothers. Percy, wasn't it?

But while Percy's attention was on the procession of champions, he wasn't focused on Chey and Fleur. He welcomed someone else to the seats next to him, and when Chey reflected on the day he met Percy and his "ambitious" nature, he was grateful it wasn't him. When he saw that Harry and his date were the intended recipient, however, Chey felt a slight pang of sympathy, but not so much that he'd trade places with Harry.

"I've been promoted," Chey heard him say before anyone had been seated, and right away he stopped paying attention to what Percy was saying.

"Qui est-il?" Fleur asked him.

"Charlie's brother," Chey answered in French. "The boring one," he clarified, anticipating her next question.

In a departure from the traditional Hogwarts feast, the magnificent food was nowhere to be seen on the tables. Instead there was a small menu in front of every seat. Dumbledore led by example, speaking his order of pork chops to his plate, and the plate was immediately filled with roasted cuts of pork. Chey was pleased to see his prime rib came with a hearty helping of bacon mashed potatoes, a toasted roll and collared greens. Fleur leaned towards a French cuisine and ordered coq au vin blanc with braised leeks. When Fleur declined Chey's offer to her to try a bit of his plate, he reminded her that he spent all the last year sampling her home cuisine, and dared her not to like the potatoes. She tried them, then did her best _not_ to enjoy them with limited success.

Along the table Chey could hear Viktor and Hermione discussing the differences between Hogwarts and Durmstrang, Madame Maxime was critiquing the decor, Percy continued blathering on about how important Barty Crouch was, and Dumbledore going on about a restroom he once found.

Finally, the food had been consumed, and with a wave of Dumbledore's wand the tables were swept to the edges of the hall, making room for a large dance floor. A stage was conjured on the right wall, upon which stood a lute, a cello, bagpipes, drum set and a collection of guitars. It wasn't until the band walked out that Chey figured out what they were for.

Near frozen by dread, Chey's had was taken by Fleur and she lead him onto the newly cleared floor. Before he knew it she had placed his left hand on the small of her back, held his right in her left, and put her other hand on his shoulder.

When the music started, everything that Sophie, Allison and Victoria tried to teach him vanished from his mind. He couldn't remember any steps, or even what they were called. It felt like taking a final exam for a class he never attended. He looked around frantically, thinking maybe he could mimic what the other guys were doing.

Viktor and Cedric were behind him, so he couldn't see, and Harry was no help at all, as he was getting steered in circles like a horse by the girl he was with. Before long, Fleur had placed her hand gently on his head, grabbing his attention. She smiled, saying "It's all right," and Chey remembered what Cedric had told him: "Just let her lead and fake the rest."

Cedric's advice was so genius, he wondered why Sophie, Allison and Victoria dismissed it so quickly when he brought it up. As Fleur guided him around the room, Chey caught sight of Cedric and gave him a nod. Gradually, more party attendants joined the floor, and Chey didn't feel quite as conspicuous now that all eyes weren't on him. He even started to enjoy it.

Earlier than Chey expected, the song was over. After a brief applause, the band struck up a faster, more upbeat song, much to the enjoyment of the students. Chey was about to leave the dance floor, but Fleur kept him from escaping.

"Don't think so much," she told him. "Just move."

And move they did. And before long even that song was over. Then the next one finished.

"Shall we get drinks?" Fleur suggested, and Chey agreed, realizing he was parched.

"Let's hope there's something other than pumpkin juice and butterbeer."

The most appealing drink available WAS butterbeer, so Chey and Fleur suffered through them, figuring that once they found Edward they could get something better. Trouble was that Edward was nowhere to be found. They couldn't find him in the crowd, by the drinks or at the tables. Not thinking of anywhere else to look, they ventured into the entrance hall and out the huge oak doors.

They spent a whole three minutes looking for Edward before they found a secluded bench among the fairy lights and sat down.

"You're actually a fairly good dancer," Fleur said.

"I got nothing on you. I still remember how you danced at Jacqueline's birthday party last year."

"The trick is not to think so much when you dance."

"Don't have to think so much when I'm watching you, either."

"So my Veela charm _does_ have an effect on you!"

"Maybe," he said. Then he leaned in close to her, "But let's see if I have any charm on you."

After a long kiss, she said, "No, I'm not getting anything."

As they shared a laugh, Edward and Victoria found them, looking flush and out of breath.

"Chey, you're not going to believe what we found!"

* * *

Author's note:

I gotta be honest, this is what took me so long to update. I got stuck here, trying to avoid making the ball scene cliché. It was really hard, and just like how you put off your least favorite subject in school, I kept putting this off, hoping for some inspiriation.

But truthfully the scene in the book is pretty cliché, so I decided to grit my teeth and muddle through as best I could, and I'm glad I did, because now I can carry on to the stuff I really want to give you guys.

Some good stuff to come, not the least of which is the next chapter.

-Termite.


	61. Chapter 61, After Party

Seriously, you probably know this disclaimer by heart after sixty chapters. Suffice it to say I didn't write the Harry Potter series. This is just my personal twist.

* * *

Chapter Sixty-One

After Party

* * *

Edward and Victoria led Fleur and Chey up to the seventh floor corridor, saying they found a place to hold the party without interruption.

"We went up for a bottle of scotch, and I was going to come down using the secret passage from the seventh floor to the fourth," Edward explained, "but I missed a turn, doubled back a few times past that tapestry with the trolls, and this door appeared on the wall."

They arrived at the spot and the wall he indicated was blank.

"It was right there," Edward said. Chey approached the wall and felt it, trying to find a magical trace.

"What was behind it?" he asked.

"It was the passage we were looking for," Edward said. "Only that's behind a statue, not a door. I thought it was a bit stupid for there to be two entrances to that passage, so I closed the door and it disappeared. Then I walked past it acting like I was looking for a broom cupboard, and the door appeared with a broom cupboard behind it!"

"This is weird," Chey said. He touched the wall and licked his fingers, trying to get a full feeling of the magic. "Most enchantments are basic. They're like equations: one input, one output. But this one..."

He put his ear to the wall, and he could hear the inhuman whispers of the magic in the walls, but he'd swear he could hear one of them asking "What do you require?"

What harm could it do to answer the wall's question?

Putting his palm to the wall, Chey visualized what he wanted the door to reveal. But however he put it forward, the door would not appear.

"How did you do it?" Chey asked Edward.

"I walked back and forth a few times thinking about what I wanted to see."

"Give it a try." Edward walked back and forth, and the third time he passed the spot, the door appeared.

On the outside, it looked just like any other door in the corridor, but upon closer inspection, Chey saw a slot that could be opened by someone on the inside. Within was a bar with a multitude of stools, sofas around cocktail tables, and a large space for dancing. The whole room was lit with warm light, with nothing but candles illuminating the sofas. Towards the back was a small door, above which it was labeled in very old-time letters "Kitchen," which Chey guessed was a very real path to the kitchens of Hogwarts.

"I'll be damned, Ed," Chey said, surveying the room. "You made a speakeasy!"

* * *

A few hours later and almost every seventh-year student (along with the odd sixth-year) was in the room and the party in the Great Hall had dwindled to a light murmur, and the curious room turned out to be incredible.

When someone had mentioned the lack of music, a drum set, guitar, bass, baby grand piano, string quartet and a full on arsenal of brass instruments appeared in the corner when no one was looking. Taking a bit of inspiration from how the enchanted room took requests, Chey charmed the instruments to play any song from the past century, so long as someone requested it.

Then, when someone said they needed to step out for some air, there suddenly appeared a door to a balcony overlooking the lake and the Beauxbatons carriage. This intrigued Chey, since they could not possibly overlook the grounds, as even if it was a real room it would have been surrounded by corridor walls on all side.

The kitchen door was indeed a door to the kitchens. Connor and Lucas ventured down and returned with all sorts of snacks, along with five cases of butterbeer carted by house elves. One of the elves, an odd one named Dobby wearing three hats, a child's soccer uniform and bizzare mismatched socks, took a liking to them and agreed to keep them well stocked. Viktor had come through with inviting the Durmstrang students, who had brought contraband of their own: six bottles of vodka. The Beauxbatons students would have brought some French wine, but Fleur said they didn't have any left after the party following the First Task.

Partway through the night, Lucas and Edward began a debate with Fleur, Jacqueline and Viktor about which school was best. Comparisons from the grounds, to castles, to headmasters, to Quidditch teams went back and forth until Chey finally shouted, "Shut up! Venice has all of you beat!"

Chey's comment earned him having everyone involved throw an empty butterbeer bottle at him, which he narrowly avoided by ducking behind a couch.

Further hijinks ensued as the night dragged on. Connor and Lucas tried, yet again, to construct a tower of butterbeer bottles reaching the ceiling, but the room seemed to sense their need for a challenge more than their desire for success, as the ceiling never seemed reachable no matter how tall their tower climbed. Viktor eventually left, escorting Hermione (who seemed rather uncomfortable about attending an out-of-bounds party) back to her dormitory. Jacqueline had yet to hear a song she didn't like, dancing the night away with a boy from Durmstrang. Edward and Victoria had fallen asleep cuddled together on a sofa, while Dona and Geoffrey held court with several sixth-years on how to pass Professor Snape's Potions class.

When enough people had left (because he wasn't keen on sharing), Chey ducked out momentarily to fetch a few bottles of Lenny's famous lager, two of which he shared with Fleur.

"It's definitely more complex a flavor than a typical American drink," Fleur observed.

"Lenny's worked on this for years," Chey said. "His little pet project."

"Does he sell it?" she asked.

"No, he just brews it for friends and special occasions. I told him he should market it, but he said my dad's estate pays him more than enough to take care of him and his family."

"What did you say he does?"

"He takes care of the house and my dad's cars. I can't imagine how low his jaw would drop if he saw what that poltergeist did to the Charger." Thinking of Lenny's love of the cars made Chey feel bad for bringing the Charger to England in the first place. "I probably shouldn't have brought the car here."

"You really care about him, don't you?" Fleur said after a moment.

"He and Jimmy were like uncles to me," he said. "I already lost Jimmy and, well, I don't get to see Lenny that much any more."

"You still have your aunt," she reminded him.

"Yeah, and all she does lately is ask me if I'm done with that room yet."

"Why does she have you doing that?"

"I don't know. Probably because she ran out of things to teach me from books. I don't think she cares that I can't do it."

"She wouldn't tell you to do it if you couldn't," Fleur said.

"How do you know?"

"I know you," she said, "and if she's anything like you then she doesn't do anything without a reason." When he looked at her quizzically, she relented, "All right, fine. I asked her, and she said she's sure you'll find a way to do it on your own."

Chey sighed. "She will never stop trying to control my life."

"She cares about you! She... just... she has as much trouble showing it as you do."

"Gee, thanks. So I'm stuck with an empty room until she learns to express herself or I get a brainwave."

"You know what might help," she said after a moment, "seeing that wandmaker."

"I think you're a little confused. I'm not supposed to use my wand for this."

"I'm not saying it will help directly, but maybe something will help you."

"I dunno," Chey resigned as Fleur snuggled up closer to him, and as Connor and Lucas finally succeeded in assembling their tower, Chey succumbed to the effects of the scotch and lager and drifted off to sleep.

While asleep he dreamed of Jimmy and Lenny in his father's garage while a house elf made a hash of changing the oil in the Charger. Minerva entered the garage and told Chey to turn it into a library. When he did so she sat him down in front of a stack of books as tall as he was, and told him to start studying. As he read, Ollivander was explaining the words on the pages, but the words he was using weren't any language Chey knew. Fed up with the old man, Chey grabbed a bottle of lager from the desk and left the room.

He was walking for a while down a long, stone, torch-lit corridor, but he wasn't wearing his regular clothes. It was a simple gray hooded robe over a rough wool shirt and short tight trousers, while a pair of leather sandals protected his feet from the rough wooden floor. With both hands, he carried a narrow wooden box about two feet long. Looking at his hands, he saw they were old, knobbly and worn. He suddenly realized he was slightly limping and hunched over.

He was being led down the hall by four fierce-looking men, standing taller than him. They carried pikes and wore iron breastplates and hard leather gauntlets and greaves. Any glance he gave them was met with stony silence. Behind his escorts were five old men, their lined faces made ghastly by the flickering torchlight. They were as hunched over as he was and wearing a similar garb, but he was the only one holding a box.

At last they reached the doors, flanked by yet more guards. Two of them opened the doors, revealing an audience chamber, wherein dozens of stiff-backed men and women, young and old, but all better dressed than himself, stood at rapt attention, either out of respect or fear Chey could not say.

At the front of the room, seated in a tall chair on a dais, was the woman who commanded their attention. And upon seeing her, he did feel himself shudder. If not for her intangible presence, the first word Chey would use to describe her would be "beautiful." Her round face and black hair were indeed fair, and her slim figure was well complimented by the black dress she wore, but he could not focus on her beauty, for her very presence filled him with dread, and he felt the wooden box pulsate with longing.

"My Lady," he heard himself say in a groggy, tired voice, "it is complete."

"Excellent," she answered, standing from her seat of command, her voice frighteningly calm. Gracefully, she glided toward him, every step filling him with icy dread. He could feel the room's occupants moving slightly away from her.

"Please," he said as she stretched a hand out to the box, "my children..."

"...Will not be harmed so long as I am satisfied," she answered. He reluctantly presented the box to her and she opened it. Out of it she pulled a beautiful ash wand, medium-brown, but lighter where it was carved in the shape of a dragon entwined around the handle.

She gave it a twirl, and a sickening pulse shuddered throughout the chamber. An eerie smile played across her eyes.

"My lady," Chey's voice croaked through his terror.

"Your children, I know," she said, still ever so calm as she watched the light play on the wand's features. "Never you worry. You shall be seeing them soon enough."

She gave the wand a quick twirl, and he felt a pinch in his neck. He felt his shirt become warm and wet, and his gnarled fingers felt blood gushing from a gash in his throat. A dark haze enveloped him as he saw her wave the wand broadly, sending the chamber and the castle around it into a million pieces, until finally he saw nothing.

It was Fleur's stirring that woke Chey from his sleep. In her slumber, she'd wrapped her arms around him and rested her head upon his chest. Despite shifting in her sleep, her hair was still perfectly done up, no doubt thanks to a charm she'd applied to it as she readied herself for the party. The sofa they slept on was deeper than Chey remembered, and a blanket had appeared over top of them as they slept; a function of the room's enchantment, perhaps.

Looking around briefly, Chey could see the bar had disappeared, instead replaced by a buffet, upon which Dobby the house elf was laying out a breakfast spread. Connor and Lucas's Tower O' Butterbeer remained standing, but the doors to the balcony had closed and the warm ambient glow from the night before had given way to cool morning light punctuated by warming fireplaces.

Chey shifted under Fleur, as sleeping in his dress robes had made him uncomfortable. He felt bad about this immediately, for this had awoken Fleur. But when she opened her eyes, she realized who she was holding and held on even tighter. Chey put a hand on her shoulder and stroked her back.

He was quite content to lay there for the rest of the day, but his restless mind led him to contemplate the room. Free from the inhibition of scotch or lager, Chey could get a grip on how it actually worked. Within Hogwarts were the remnants of millions of spells. This enchantment was designed to take those remnants and activate them to create what was necessary. In a way, every spell the room needed was already there, it just needed the right trigger.

"A trigger," he muttered to himself.

"Quel est-il?" Fleur murmured, but he ignored her, instead gazing around the room. The room was full of triggers, and not all of them magical. The tower of butterbeer bottles was a mere bump away from toppling over. Connor was an odd snore short of falling off the armchair he was splayed upon. The room itself needed only a suggestion before it would change its entire structure.

"A small release," he muttered, "to trigger a larger magical reaction... It could work..."

He flew off the couch and out of the curious room, down the many staircases to the first floor. Fleur hurried after him, having taken off her heeled shoes so she may keep up. Along the way, he passed Minerva, who called after him. When he didn't answer her, she followed him. At last, he reached the first floor and the hospital wing. Running past beds with students still asleep, one of which had a squash growing from his head, he knocked on Madam Pomfrey's office door, which she promptly answered.

"I need that blue potion you gave me when I broke my hand," he said, not waiting for her question.

"Just what do you think you are doing, Chey," Minerva called at him.

"I got an idea," he answered. Then, to Madam Pomfrey, he said, "Please, that lemon flavored thing. I need to focus."

"Have you been imperioused again?" the nurse asked, worried.

"No, I'm just about to get a similar effect and I need a clear head."

Madam Pomfrey looked back and forth from him to Minerva, then Minerva must have given her a nod, because the nurse ducked back into her office and produced the pale blue potion in a vial for him.

"I'll probably need two," he told her, but after some hesitation she brought him the second vial.

He snatched the vials, perhaps more rudely than he should have, and bolted from the hospital wing. Whipping past Minerva and Fleur, he made for the three empty rooms on the fourth floor down the hall from the Transfiguration classroom. Finally, he reached his destination, with Fleur and Minerva hot on his heels.

"Here, hold this," he told Fleur, handing her the ghostly image of his wand once he extracted it from his arm. The feeling of dread was instantaneous as always. Shaking, he downed both vials of the potion, and began to calm down.

What he was left with was a minor buzzing in his ears, but it was low enough he could ignore it. Making his way around the room, he looked for the traces of the spells that he would need to transfigure the room. They were all there: hundreds of levitation charms, severing charms and Reparo spells. Taking note of each, he moved to the middle of the room and tried to find their epicenter.

This was tricky. It was exactly like finding the mid-point of a thousand different lines, all starting and ending at different points.

"Where are you," he said aloud to no one.

"What is it?" Fleur finally asked.

"I'm trying to find the trigger," he said. Talking about it helped, so he kept at it. "It'll be in the middle of all this mess, but different strengths mean different distances, and most of these are only going to work when they react to something nearby. So it'll be on the floor..."

He knelt down, an ear to the ground, feeling for the connections. Then, right there between two cracks...

"Found you!" Summoning all the magic he could from his Veela blood, he pounded the floor with his fist.

His aura flashed silver, and an intangible shock wave shuddered about the room, and piece by piece the bricks and support beams came free of their assembly, shifting and shuffling, some flying to opposite ends of the room, narrowly missing Fleur, Minerva and himself. Eventually, two of the walls disappeared, their pieces now part of the other walls, and where there were three rooms, now there was one.

"Incredible," Fleur gaped as Chey began to feel the potion's effects wearing off. She saw him, then rushed forward with his wand. Retrieving the shards back into his arm, he awaited Minerva's judgement.

She tapped the walls with her wand, checking his work. At last, she turned to him, saying, "Well done, Chey."


	62. Chapter 62, Extra Credit

Seriously, you probably know this disclaimer by heart after sixty chapters. Suffice it to say I didn't write the Harry Potter series. This is just my personal twist.

* * *

Chapter Sixty-Two

Extra Credit

* * *

"Magic is not a science," said the aged wandmaker as Chey stood in the middle of the shop, reflecting on everything he was told. "It is as intangible as a fleeting memory. You cannot touch it, you cannot measure it."

"_I_ can," he snapped.

"No," Ollivander retorted, "you can only sense its trace effects. Now close your eyes and tell me where I am in the room."

He did as he was told and focused on following the old man as he walked through the shop. It was only a day ago he arrived, and already this was feeling like one of Minerva's lessons. After he'd successfully transfigured the room, the topic of training with Ollivander came up again while Fleur and Chey had breakfast. Despite his success with the transfiguration, she'd convinced him that perhaps he didn't know everything about magic, and a visit to the wandmaker couldn't hurt.

And so early the next day, he set out in the Charger for London, following hand-written instructions to the Leaky Cauldron, given to him by Hagrid. The streets of London were an absolute maze, and Hagrid's handwriting didn't help, but eventually he did manage to negotiate the narrow streets, busy traffic, and endless turns and bought a street map, which he _then_ used to find the correct cross-streets and entered Diagon Alley through the pub as the sun was setting.

After welcoming him, Ollivander spent a long time contemplating Chey's embedded wand, asking him to show the glowing shards, then hide them, then show them again. Chey was asked to cast spells, defend against hexes, and conjure illusions, all while Ollivander watched and scribbled illegible notes on parchment.

And now he was being asked to guess where the old man was standing. It was easy: Chey could hear him walking behind him towards the front of the shop.

"You're by the window," he said.

"Are you certain?" Chey opened his eyes, and...

He was outside? How could this be? He didn't apparate, that was certain, for there was no sound. He tried to find evidence of some magic, but there was no portkey, no levitation, no nothing! He hadn't been imperioused, he would have felt that. He hadn't been charmed to sleep, he knew, because there would have been some drowsiness. But somehow, he was out on the main street of Diagon Alley, staring at the front of Ollivander's shop.

"That... that can't..." He had to know what it was.

The shop door was just an ordinary door. There was no enchantment at all. The same with the door frame, windows, and wall. After checking the lamp above the door to make sure it wasn't charmed, he braved opening the door.

Instead of entering the front room of the shop, he emerged in the back among the towering stacks of boxes containing unsold wands. Had the whole shop been turned around? No, that wasn't it. If that was the case, then he would be able to feel the magic of the street behind him, but it was as if it disappeared. So _he_ must have moved.

The question was, how?

He wandered around the shop, looking for the old man while trying to find any trace of whatever spell was used. He could find neither.

"All right," he called out, his pride crippled. "Where are you, then."

"Precisely where you said I was," came Ollivander's voice. Sure enough, the old man was standing at the shop window, only Chey never saw him until now.

"...How did you-"

"Magic, of course."

"I didn't sense anything."

"Isn't that interesting," Ollivander said playfully.

"There was no vanishing spell," Chey said, "no apparition, no levitation, illusion or portkey or nothing. What the hell was that?!"

The old man sighed. "Charms, enchantments, curses, spells; these are all words people assign to magic so we may better understand it. The fact of the matter is that magic follows no such guidelines. It is not so simply divided into categories. It has no properties, only effects. It is a force, but it cannot be quantified. Magic... just _is_."

"But... how can something exist without properties?"

"That is the great mystery."

The more Ollivander explained it, the more Chey began to understand it, so long as he just accepted certain paradigms that escaped him. Finally, on the last day of his visit, he asked the old man, "Did you figure anything out about my wand?"

"By all odds," he said, "the bond between you and your wand should not have happened. There is something else at play here, or else your wand would not have desired to remain with you, even after its demise."

"So, you've got nothing for me, is what you're saying."

"For now. But I do know more than I did before. I will have to spend some time researching with this new information."

Chey sighed. The trip wasn't a total loss, but it was less productive than he'd hoped. In hindsight, he should have expected he wouldn't simply walk away with newfound knowledge, but it was disappointing all the same.

"Would you be willing to return at a later date, when I have new information?" the wandmaker asked.

"Um, yeah, I guess." What could it hurt?

* * *

When Chey returned to Hogwarts, piloting the Charger up the gravel drive, Fleur dashed out of the Beauxbatons carriage to greet him. She rode in the car with him to the castle, updating him on the happenings at the Beauxbatons carriage since he left. Apparently, Jacqueline had become smitten with the boy from Durmstrang she was dancing with during the after-party. That boy turned out to be Andrey, the one who had given Chey so much grief for breaking him up with his then-girlfriend at Durmstrang, only Chey never recognized him since he'd grown six inches, cut his hair and grown a beard since then.

Additionally, Rita Skeeter had tried to dig up some more dirt on Chey and Fleur by intruding on the Beauxbatons carriage, but was chased off by Madame Maxime in a hurry. The Beauxbatons headmistress clearly didn't want any negative press about her champion, a point which Skeeter readily alluded to in her article. Someone must have spoken to her, though, as she embellished the fact that Fleur and Chey had attended the ball together.

When Chey parked the Charger in the makeshift garage, Fleur told him she'd figured out the egg clue, so he needn't be nervous around her as the second task neared. All she needed was to research and practice a charm that would be essential to her completing the task. He felt better knowing she was on the right track on her own, even if a crucial part of the information came to her unwittingly. Chey made a mental note to watch Moody very closely.

In turn, he told her about his progress with Ollivander, little as it was. Though Chey had learned little from the old man, he had some clues which could lead him to his own conclusion. This gave him an idea.

"I want to cash in my last Mediator perk," he said when he reached the headmaster's office.

Dumbledore looked up at Chey from his desk bemused, but clearly he knew of what Chey was speaking.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I want unlimited access to the library," Chey said. "There's a restricted section I want in on."

The headmaster considered him for a moment, then finally said, "Very well, but would you mind if I asked why?"

Chey was reluctant. Could he trust the old man?

"Personal research," he said, deciding to be vague.

"A worthy endeavor," he responded. "Something to do with the wandless magic you have been studying?"

"...Something like that," Chey answered.

"As you wish."

* * *

"Never thought I'd find you here, Yank."

"Which begs the question, Ed;" Chey replied, "What are _you_ doing in the library?"

Edward tossed his bag next to the books and notes Chey had strewn on the table. Theories, equations, and case studies were swimming in his head so thick it was getting hard to see straight, and he was grateful for the distraction.

"Need to finish one of Snape's essays," Edward answered, pulling out his books and parchment, "but I can't concentrate while Potter's trying to figure out that egg clue."

"He's not doing that in the common room, is he?"

"No, he's in the fourth-year dormitory, but the thing is so bloody loud. So what have you gotten yourself neck-deep in, then?"

Chey sighed with exhaustion. "The intricacies of how a wand connects with its user."

"Sounds deep," Edward said, gazing at Chey's studies.

"Yeah, and I'm drowning in it."

"Only you would try and research something like this voluntarily." At this moment, he spied Hermione three tables down in her own sea of books. "Well, maybe not _only_ you."

"I gotta be honest, I'm having problems wrapping my head around it," Chey said as he pushed away the book he was reading.

"Why would you be reading into this at all?"

"My venture to London wasn't entirely productive."

"Oh, right. More for Professor McGonagall."

Rather than tell the truth about his wand, Chey had explained his visit to Ollivander by telling Edward that Minerva had assigned him to delve into just the subject he was now studying. He was sure to tell Minerva and Fleur about the ruse, just in case it came up with anyone else.

"Yeah, she's a terror, all right."

"Still," Edward said, "at least she's trying to teach you something impressive. Not like Snape with his counter-anti-venoms. Why the bloody hell would I want to poison someone after they've been cured? Apart from poisoning Snape himself, of course."

"That's easy. Most cases are finding a counter for the bezoar."

"Well then why the hell wasn't that in his lecture?!"

"You have to ask?"

"Good point. Well, I guess that means I'm done with my essay. Need anything?"

"Maybe a sounding board?"

"Sure."

"Okay," Chey said, looking over his notes, "pairing is believed to be based on a combination of matched temperament, magnitude, and proclivity for certain activities. Despite this, on occasion a wand will match when the user and wand have no such match, so one may compensate for the other. So at first glance, we have no idea what's going on with them.

"But there's clues to how they work. There have been cases of wands acting on their own when the user is incapacitated. It's also known that two wands with brother cores will refuse to fight one another. And allegiance will only transfer if the user is defeated, killed, or gives it up willingly. Through this, we can assume that wands have a basic sentient nature, but we don't know how they got the rules they follow."

"You know," Edward said with a slightly dazed look in his eyes, "I was always just glad they worked."

"Point is we don't know why. Which is weird, considering we're making them. But supposedly the answer is somewhere in one of these equations. Or so they say in this book, but that one over there says those equations are misleading."

"Well, then, where do you start?"

"With that one over there, supposedly. But the deeper I dig into this, the more lost I get. The only thing these books agree on is that it's complicated."

"So what makes more sense?"

"Logically, the theory with the equations. But you throw in the case studies from this book and all that goes out the window, which would mean these things think for themselves, but that doesn't explain how they got these rules they follow for pairing."

Edward contemplated this for a while, then said, "Have you ever asked one?"

"What?" The idea was so stupid it made sense to Chey's tired brain.

"No, really. You said you could sense magic, which was why you could transfigure that room without your wand. And you figured out that weird room where we held our party by listening to it, so if wands can think, could you maybe talk to one?"

Chey gave Edward the slow-blinking stare. "That was supposed to be _my_ epiphany."

"Sorry, mate. May be a bit daft, but what do you think?"

"It might be stupid enough to work."

"Here, try it with mine," Edward said, handing over his wand.

"You sure?"

"Sure, give it a go."

With hesitation, he took Edward's wand. It was walnut, a little over twelve inches, and he could sense a phoenix feather core. He focused on listening to it, hoping it knew what he wanted to learn. He heard no such whispers, so he said "Why Edward?"

At his words he felt it tug at his hand a little in Edward's direction, but nothing else. He asked several times, and never did it give any response other than that slight pull.

"Anything?" Edward asked.

"Could be something, but I'm not sure. I'll probably need to dig into about five more books."


	63. Chapter 63, Undue Prejudice

Seriously, you probably know this disclaimer by heart after sixty chapters. Suffice it to say I didn't write the Harry Potter series. This is just my personal twist.

* * *

Chapter Sixty-Three

Undue Prejudice

* * *

The following day was Monday, which would have had Chey in Minerva's class. However, as she had yet to give him a new assignment, he spent all day in the library again, researching further into wand lore. He made little progress. A few more days of non-existent results, and he would have to conclude that even Hogwarts's library was insufficient to his needs. The only other option he could think of was the Library of Congress's sorcery section.

Tuesday morning, Chey was to help Hagrid with his plan with the fifth-years, but he was nowhere to be found when Chey arrived at his hut near the edge of the grounds. After knocking on the door several times, as well as searching the grounds and woods nearby, Chey gave up and resigned to the Great Hall for an early lunch while skimming a book on magical theory he'd borrowed from the library.

Chey finished his book and his lunch as most of the school was getting out of their morning lessons. The first to sit next to him was Harry and his two friends. Remembering that they had Hagrid's class the day before, he thought it wise to ask if they had any idea where he was.

"Hey, Red," Chey called. "Any idea where Shaggy is?"

"You mean Hagrid?" Ron was always quicker to remember Chey's nicknames for everyone.

"Yeah, I was supposed to help him out this morning, but I couldn't find him."

The three of them exchanged glances, then Hermione said, "You didn't hear?"

"Hear what?"

"Rita Skeeter wrote a horrible story in the Daily Prophet about him being half-giant, and now he's holed himself up in his house."

"Are you serious?"

"We've no idea how she found out, but-"

"He let something as trivial as that make him hide from the world?!"

Chey got up from his seat and stormed out onto the grounds. How could Hagrid think that his friends would think any differently of him if they knew his heritage? To that end, how could he think his being half-giant would remain a secret?

True, Chey didn't like to brag about his Veela heritage, but that didn't mean he'd act any differently if the world found out about it. At the very least, the people closest to him already knew.

To be fair, being part Veela and part giant were two different things. But anyone who met Chey, Fleur and Hagrid would know it's the human part that counts. Surely Hagrid would realize that.

"Shaggy!" Chey shouted, pounding his fist on Hagrid's door. "Who the hell are you hiding from?! Get out here!"

Harry, Hermione and Ron followed him. Chey hoped they might help in coaxing Hagrid out of hiding, and indeed they joined him in shouting and beating down Hagrid's door.

After what must have been twenty minutes, they all gave up, though not before Chey shouted, "You're a god-damn coward, you know that?!"

* * *

Hagrid's absence had meant his Care of Magical Creatures lessons were being taught by a Professor Grubbly-Plank. Most of the students preferred her teaching, not that Chey could blame them. Truth be told, she did have a fairly good lesson plan, though Chey took issue with the word around the castle that she disapproved of his dragon lessons.

Two weeks went by with no sign of Hagrid. Worse still, Chey was making no progress with his studies. Nothing he read could give him any lead on how wands chose their users. By Friday, the stonewall was giving him a headache.

"Perhaps you should take tomorrow off," Fleur suggested to him as he dropped his head on the table in frustration Friday evening. She had taken to studying with him in the library on some nights so she could work on her course work as well as plan for the second task. She promised not to ask him for any advice, but he could tell she was tempted. "I've never seen such dark circles under your eyes."

"Probably a good idea," he admitted. "Maybe go into town with the rest of the rabble."

Chey wasn't fond of going into the village on a Hogsmeade weekend with the rest of the school, preferring to wander the streets when they weren't crowded with students. But any break from the books would be a good one as far as he was concerned.

And so they met the following morning outside the Beauxbatons carriage to make the trek to Hogsmeade. On the way they saw Viktor climbing out of the lake and onto the Durmstrang ship. Chey didn't see anyone on the deck who might have pushed him in, so he supposed Viktor hadn't fallen prey to the game they played at Durmstrang. He must have jumped in on his own. Question was, why?

The last thing Chey wanted was another puzzle, so he put it out of his mind. Instead he listened to Fleur talk about how Jacqueline was so happy to be with Andrey. According to her account, Andrey was quite the gentleman, if a bit of an alpha-dog. Quite the change from when Chey had known him; more a-type than anything else. Chey wasn't complaining. In fact, he was flattered by the idea that all it took to make someone a better person was a fight against him.

The high street in town was indeed bustling, but not as saturated with students as Chey might have assumed. There were still plenty of townsfolk and a dash of reporters covering the tournament. Chey supposed they were probably working on fluff pieces, as he overheard more than one asking students about the Yule Ball, and he hoped they wouldn't be too loose-lipped about the after party. Curiously, though not that he was surprised, the only one that didn't seem interested in anything the students were saying was none other than the now-infamous Rita Skeeter.

Upon seeing Chey and Fleur together, she hurriedly got her stout photographer to snap a picture of the two of them. Chey was about to give her his customary one-finger salute to the reporter, but Fleur stopped him. Probably for the best.

Seeing the overly-Valentine's theme of Madame Puttifoot's Café, Chey and Fleur decided to visit the Three Broomsticks with the hope they could get something better than butterbeer, since they were both of-age in England. After Harry and his friends had gotten their butterbeers, they asked the pub's proprietor, Madame Rosemerta, if she had anything stronger. Indeed, she was amiable, offering up two rather excellent pints of English stout for them, which they took with all the gratitude in the world for not being stuck with butterbeer.

"Perhaps the French are wrong," Fleur said upon sampling the stout. "It may be there is more to the world than wine."

"English drinks are kind of like their food: they're best when heavy," Chey said.

"Not always."

The crowd in the pub was as hard to see through as their drinks, but eventually they meandered through and spotted the familiar faces of Geoffrey and Dona and sat at their table.

"Okay, I officially hate crowded bars," Chey said. "I gotta stop coming on Hogsmeade weekends."

Geoffrey and Dona exchanged glances when their new table-mates joined them.

"Um, Chey," Dona started, "don't take this the wrong way..."

"No good sentence ever started out like that," Chey said. "What's wrong?"

"Well, are you sure you two want to be out in public together right now?" Dona finished reluctantly. After a stern look from Chey, she grabbed a newspaper from the next table and handed it to him.

Chey already knew what to look for, and he found it on the right-side column on the front page. The headline, "Just Another Pretty Face?"

"Aw, shit," he said.

"What is it?" Lucas said, appearing behind him with Connor. Chey pointed at the headline, and Fleur, Connor and Lucas all read over Chey's shoulder.

"_Fleur Delacour, a pretty girl from Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and a champion in the Triwizard Tournament, seems to have used an unfair influence to her advantage in the competition._

_In early October, American wizard Chey McGonagall was named Mediator of the Triwizard Tournament, a ceremonial position which requires impartiality among the contestants. However, this reporter has found that such impartiality does not exist, and Miss Delacour may well be to blame._

_Sources close to Miss Delacour have revealed that she and Mr. McGonagall were intimately close a year ago when he attended Beauxbatons Academy. Ordinarily, this would not raise eyebrows, but as Mr. McGonagall now finds himself in the position of mediator and Miss Delacour has been selected as a Triwizard Champion, it's hard not to question whether she got in on her merit alone._

_Details are shrouded about Mr. McGonagall's involvement in the champion selection process, but he is rumored to have been consulted in the precautions necessary to prevent underage students from entering the selection process. It is hard not to see an opportunity for him to interfere with the process._

_And looking at the champions selected, it's easy to assume he has. Indeed, Mr. McGonagall shares a friendship with all of the selected champions, even the dark horse, Harry Potter, and Quidditch star seeker, Viktor Krum. Considering this, Mr. McGonagall must have used his influence as the mediator to sway the champion selection in their favor._

_But the only champion who seems to be falling short is Miss Delacour. Even the young, dashing Harry Potter held his own brilliantly in the first task, with some spectacular broom-flying skills, but Miss Delacour had trouble and was seriously burned._

_Why, then, would Mr. McGonagall put his friends in such danger? Perhaps it was out of misplaced loyalty, to be sure. But with Miss Delacour, he may have had no choice._

_This reporter can exclusively reveal that Miss Delacour's beauty is not skin-deep, but rather blood-deep. Fleur Delacour's grandmother was full-blooded Veela, and has passed that trait down to the Beauxbatons Champion. It is known that persons with partial Veela blood inherit the signature Veela charm, and Fleur Delacour seems to have used this to influence Mr. McGonagall._

_Indeed, the two were intimately close as they attended the Yule Ball, the Triwizard Tournament Christmas tradition. Miss Delacour seems to be flaunting her control over Mr. McGonagall, now that she is securely in the tournament."_

Chey couldn't read any more. Skeeter had crossed the line, and it was time to put an end to her intrusion. It wasn't enough that she'd ruined Hagrid, but now she was turning half-truths into outright lies.

And as if on cue, the devil herself entered the pub, decked in evil yellow robes.

"Think we should do a bit of digging?" she said to her photographer. "'Disgraced Ex-Head of Magical Games and Sports, Ludo Bagman...' Snappy start to a sentence, Bozo – we just need to find a story to fit it-"

Before Chey could confront her, Harry had beaten him to the punch. "Trying to ruin someone else's life?"

Harry's outburst brought the pub to a halt. Skeeter, however looked like the cat that caught the canary when she saw him.

"Harry! How lovely! Why don't you come and join-?"

"I wouldn't come near you with a ten-foot broomstick," Harry said. Chey had never seen such fury from Harry. "What did you do that to Hagrid for, eh?"

"Our readers have a right to the truth, Harry. I am merely doing my-"

"Who cares if he's half-giant? There's nothing wrong with him!"

Officially, there was now nothing else of interest in the bar. Every eye was on the two of them. Chey found himself standing from his table.

Skeeter wasn't bothered. Whipping out an acid-green quill and parchment, she said, "How about giving me an interview about the Hagrid _you_ know, Harry? The man behind the muscles? Your unlikely friendship and the reasons behind it. Would you call him a father substitute?"

"You horrible woman," Hermione seethed, "you don't care, do you, anything for a story, and anyone will do, won't they? Even Ludo Bagman-"

"Sit down, you silly little girl, and don't talk about things you don't understand," Skeeter said coldly, her eyes no longer bright. "I know things about-"

The crowd never heard what she knew about who, for Chey had stormed across the room and towered above Rita Skeeter.

"Bitch," he said to her, "get out."

"My my, it's the puppet," she said. There was ice in her voice. "Did your lady friend tell you to kick me out, or are you completely trained by now?"

"Say what you want about me," he said, trying to remain calm. "Call me a screw-up, question my integrity, I don't care."

More people were standing up, mostly students. Even Madame Rosemerta stood with her arms crossed, glaring at Skeeter from across the bar.

"But you crossed the line," Chey continued, his tone escalating. "You've found your way to the top, and it's through a web of lies. I'm afraid to know how you live with yourself. You've already ruined a good man's name, and now you're looking to do it again. But worst of all, you are now slandering and harassing my friends! Now get the fuck out!"

Skeeter was trying to keep her composure. She kept eye contact with him for several seconds, but eventually glanced around the room. Connor and Lucas had approached, side by side, ready to escort her out forcefully if needed.

"Never mind," she said, her smile as fake as ever. "I think I have all I need."

She stowed the quill and parchment in her hideous bag and left the pub with her head held high. When the door finally closed shut after her, the calm ceased. Connor and Lucas clapped Chey on the shoulder, Harry and his friends gave him an approving nod, and Madame Rosemerta poured him another pint, saying "You be sure and tell Hagrid he's always welcome here."

Returning to the table, Geoffrey raised his glass. "Nicely done, mate."

"Had to be said," Chey answered. "She wouldn't leave otherwise."

"But you know she's just going to go after you now," Dona said.

"I have no doubt. She'll probably be gunning for Whiskers and Specks, too."

"You're not worried?"

"Bad press, I can deal with. I won't put up with that bitch attacking anyone, especially Fleur."

Fleur clasped his hand in her's, and kissed his cheek. He would have returned the affection, but he was still fuming about Skeeter and planning how to keep her attention on him so she'd leave everyone else alone.

* * *

Author's Note:

Dividing my time now between this story and another one. Whether I post this new one or not is up in the air, as I'm not sure where it's going yet. I'm also quite busy with work and often-times when I get home I'm exhausted. Gone are the nights when I could pour myself a drink and let the creative juices flow.

But I haven't abandoned this at all. I'm far too invested in it now, and I'd never forgive myself if I did.

Thanks for sticking with Chey through these years, and I hope you guys stick around for the times to come!

-Termite


	64. Chapter 64, Void

Seriously, you probably know this disclaimer by heart after sixty chapters. Suffice it to say I didn't write the Harry Potter series. This is just my personal twist.

* * *

Chapter Sixty-Four

Void

* * *

Chey decided that the best way to divert Rita Skeeter's attention was to cause a new scandal. The worst thing he could come up with was his wand, but Fleur and Viktor both said that would only make him a curiosity, not necessarily a scandal. All he had left was his Veela heritage, which Viktor thought would be enough, but Chey thought otherwise, since Fleur was so open with her heritage.

It was Edward, however, who was the deciding vote, who had noticed Skeeter showed a prejudice against so-called half-breeds in her previous articles. This meant Skeeter was sure to latch onto Chey's Veela blood in lieu of Fleur's.

"If you want her attention, that's the way to do it," Edward said to Chey as they looked over old copies of the _Daily Prophet_ in the library. "Wave the flag a bit, and she'll even crucify you."

"I dunno," Chey said. "I don't like the idea of being the flag man for a crusade."

"Well, it's that or you get engaged to a troll."

"Your hyperbole is not appreciated."

"Sorry, just trying to lighten the mood a bit. You've been a little hard to talk to since you shouted Skeeter down."

"The bitch went too far. She's lucky I didn't stab her with her own damn quill."

Edward sighed. It wasn't the first time Chey had said that. "How did she know Fleur was part-Veela, anyway?"

"She was at the wand weighing. When the old man checked Fleur's wand, he said it had a Veela hair core and Fleur said it was her grandmother's."

"She doesn't have a problem with it, then?"

"No, but she's never let anything like that bring her down."

"So, then, what's your problem?"

"I don't like being labeled," Chey lied. He knew what his problem was, and he knew it was stupid. His Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Minerva told him about his mother. While she was proud of being part-Veela, she was very careful about who she mentioned it to, especially since she met his father. Jimmy said that, while you'd never know it having met him, William was from the aristocracy; people who would judge you as soon as look at you, if not sooner. A person's background was very important in their world, so William having married a half-breed like Alana could have hurt his business relations. This was years ago, of course, and he was in a different world from his father's, but that instinct to keep quiet about his non-human heritage stuck.

"That's rubbish," Edward said. "A few labels aren't going to ruin your life. Get over it if you want to deal with Skeeter."

"You got a point, but I still don't like it."

"Well, unless you've got the hots for a troll..."

"I know, I know."

The hours ticked by until it was late at night, and still they had no idea better than to reveal Chey's Veela heritage, but Chey was beginning to feel more receptive to the idea. Not that he told Edward, though. Eventually, Edward gave up trying to convince Chey and left him to further comb through old articles, but after an hour Chey gave up on his research and left the library.

Since successfully completing the task Minerva set to him, Chey was no longer subject to curfew, meaning he didn't have to sneak around while he was out late. Not having to keep from being found was still strange, even almost a month later, and he was now uncannily aware of how still the castle was, at least on the surface. With no students bustling about, Chey could easier sense the cornucopia of enchantments that had occurred along the corridors. Here and there were hexes and curses thrown in anger during petty squabbles, along with various lighting spells and levitation charms and the odd vanishing spell, no doubt used to hide a bit of contraband.

As he passed a portrait featuring an old wizard with a whistling snore, Chey's focus on the magical residue was broken by the unearthly-loud wailing that could only have come from one of the golden eggs owned by the Triwizard champions echoing through the halls. It took a few seconds of apathy before he realized that, as the Triwizard Mediator, he ought to investigate on the likely probability that a champion was involved.

Following the noise led him down two flights of stairs, then behind a tapestry which revealed another staircase. At the lower landing was the ungainly trio of Professors Moody and Snape and the caretaker Filch clutching the now-closed egg, though it wasn't the egg they were discussing.

"He's a trusting man, isn't he?" Moody said. "Believes in second chances. But me, I say there are spots that don't come off, Snape. Spots that never come off, d'you know what I mean?"

At this, Snape clutched convulsively at his left forearm. His dread was palpable.

Moody laughed at Snape's reflex. "Get back to bed, Snape."

"You don't have the authority to send me anywhere," Snape said in an angry hiss. "I have as much right to prowl this school after dark as you do!"

"Prowling's a lot less sinister when you do it in your PJ's," Chey said as he descended the stairs. "Although, a lack of sleep would explain your sunny dispositions."

"What are you doing out of bed, McGonagall?" Snape sneered.

"Not that it's any of your business, but I was just coming back from the library when I heard the noise. I figured-"

Chey stopped, though not because he sense the trick step in the staircase, but rather he sensed nothing. There was a void, completely absent of magic that moved to one side as he walked down the steps, as if to avoid him. It was hiding part of the trick step's magic. He had sensed something like this before, back in Hogsmeade. It was following Hermione along the high street that day, though Chey couldn't imagine why Hermione would be wandering around at night. Well, he could, but no reason for tonight.

"Figured what, McGonagall?" Moody growled after a few seconds, and Chey snapped back to attention.

"I figured whatever it was might need my attention. Sounded an awful lot like the Triwizard clue."

"It's Peeves," the crotchety old caretaker said. "He's gotten to stealing from students now. We'll have him out this time for certain!"

"Doesn't sound like his behavior," Chey said. "He is a menace, don't get me wrong. But even he has a line he won't cross."

"What makes you so sure?" Filch said snidely.

"Durmstrang," Chey answered. "They have a sharper focus on dark magic. Poltergeists cause mayhem because they think they're protecting their home. They wouldn't risk being separated from it, so he would want to keep his nose relatively clean."

"Hmm," Moody growled again. "So where would you say this came from?"

"Too many possibilities. But I don't sense anyone here other than you three."

Moody seemed satisfied with that answer. Or at least as satisfied as Moody got, Chey supposed. By their expressions, Filch and Snape must have already dismissed everything Chey had said.

"Well, be that as it may," Moody said, "best you move along, sonny."

"Not without that," Chey said, pointing to the egg in Filch's hands.

"No!" Filch retorted. "This is evidence of Peeves's treachery, and I'll be taking this to the Headmaster!"

"It's property of a champion and an important part of the Tournament, so it's my responsibility to take care of it."

"Is it now?" Filch grumbled.

"You don't believe me?" Chey bluffed. He wasn't sure it really was his job to handle it, but he was very interested in knowing who it belonged to. Surely, whoever it was would trust him enough to tell him why they were out late.

Whether Filch believed him or not, he held out the egg begrudgingly and Chey summoned it to his grasp with his illusionary wand. "I'll get this to whoever lost it and we'll be done with the issue. Good night, creepers."

"You dropped something, by the way," Moody said. Chey looked down, and saw a few steps away was a folded piece of parchment. Remembering he didn't put anything that looked like that in his pockets, he assumed it was some poor student's lost essay.

Only it didn't have line after line of writing on it. Rather, it was covered in shapes; boxes and rectangles with the odd curve or circle punctuated by writing. It looked like a maze. Actually, it looked a bit like a map...

But before he could get a good look at it, it flew away into Moody's hand. "My mistake. It's mine–must've dropped it earlier-"

"Potter," Snape muttered.

"What's that?" Moody said a bit too calmly, folding the could-be map and slipping it into his pocket.

"Potter! That egg is Potter's egg. That piece of parchment belongs to Potter. I have seen it before, I recognize it! Potter is here! Potter, in his Invisibility Cloak!"

Snape started up the stairs, his hand out before him, reaching for something he couldn't see, getting closer to the curious void next to Chey.

"There's nothing there," Chey said, though Snape could have no idea how true those words were. When Snape looked lividly at Chey, he said, "I would know."

"As would I," Moody said, indicating his magical eye. "But I'll be happy to tell the headmaster how quickly your mind jumped to Harry Potter."

"Meaning what?" Snape turned and regained his stoic composure.

"Meaning that Dumbledore's very interested in who's got it in for that boy."

"He's not the only one," Chey said, looking at Snape, though he shifted his gaze to Moody. The scarred auror did not miss this.

"I merely thought," Snape said, forcing a calm demeanor, "that if Potter was wandering around after hours again – it's an unfortunate habit of his – he should be stopped. For... his own safety."

"Ah, I see. Got Potter's best interests at heart, have you?" Moody said. Snape gave Moody a curt nod, though Chey didn't believe either of them did.

Chey was sure a quarrel between the two of them would be something to see, but it wasn't going to happen tonight if they were now pretending to be courteous.

"Well, since we're all in agreement," Chey said, "do you think maybe we should call it a night? To be completely honest, I'm not finding you three to be the best of company."

Snape and Filch shot Chey a pair of dirty looks while Moody grumbled. As Chey turned to climb back up the stairs, he tried once more to sense anything in the void on the stairs, but still there was nothing. He left the three staff members to their own devices, though he'd like to confront Moody about his interference with the tournament, since Harry's name came up, but Filch and Snape's presence would have complicated it. This was discouraging, as Moody had been avoiding Chey since he first confronted the old wizard shortly after the first task.

Chey returned to the Gryffindor common room, golden egg in hand, and resolved to first ask Harry in the morning if he had misplaced his Triwizard clue.

* * *

Author's note

I want to let all my readers know I really appreciate your patience with me. Things on my end have been interesting the past few months. Having two jobs just to break even really puts a cramp in one's down time.

It's not all bad news, though. I've been experimenting with another fiction from the Zoids universe. It's a different style than Spirit of Fear, with a less limited 3rd person narrative. When I'm writing it, it feels like I'm putting together a screenplay. I've got a couple chapters down, so look for it a few days after I post this update.

Thanks, everyone! I'm glad to see you enjoying Chey's story.

-Termite


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